And So It Begins
by Trevlik65
Summary: Mainly Athos centric, this story takes place before series one. A broken Athos has nothing left to live for , until he acquires two new brothers, whether he wants them or not. This is my first attempt so please be kind. I welcome all opinions and advice. All characters are borrowed and I don't own to be in anyway historically accurate.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1 – And So It Begins

The rider sat astride his horse, weariness emanating from his very being. The early winter chill had seeped into his bones; his limbs felt heavy and his head hung on his chest, as if it were too difficult for him to look upward. How long had he been riding? He no longer remembered, and he no longer cared. He had left, that was all that mattered.

The black stallion tossed his head and snorted, alerting his master who, for all intents and purposes, appeared to have fallen sleep. The man sat up straighter and glanced around, as though surprised to find himself riding his horse through frigid woodland; in his mind, he was somewhere else. _He was somewhere warm, full of light and love, laughter and joy. Then the darkness crowded in. Blood and tears – so much blood and, oh, so many tears._

The breath from both horse and rider billowed in the crisp air, a stillness surrounding them both. There was not a sound from the forest, other than a steady drip, drip, drip from the damp canopy above – rotting leaves, the remains of a damp and grey autumn. It seemed that everything around him had turned grey, and he hadn't even noticed. Once again, the horse stamped his foot and snorted. The man leaned forward and stroked the stallion's mane as he spoke quietly in his ear.

'I know, it's time you had some food and warmth. I have been remiss in my care.' With that, he spurred his horse onward and cantered further into the gloom, toward the grey light ahead filtering through the black trees. Not exactly welcoming, but at least it was lighter.

As horse and rider broke through the tree line, they pulled up, the view in the distance revealing their destination – Paris. However, _destination_ implied intent, and the rider had no particular intent at all; perhaps it had been his fine horse that had made the decision for his master. Perhaps the animal was tired of meandering from tavern to tavern, from one ramshackle village to another, just so his master could vent his frustration through drink and violence. Not that violence had ever been the man's goal, he had simply sought anonymity and isolation.

It appeared, though, that violence managed to find him, or perhaps it was the type of establishment he patronised. There his upbringing and his self-loathing parted company. He was more than happy to drink himself insensible, but apparently, he could not sit by and watch others reap a reward they had not deserved. He had not even tried to keep count of the number of unfortunate travellers or serving wenches whose lives or honour he had conserved. He hadn't really cared. The blood was simply wiped from his sword, coin left to pay for his fare, and then he would leave to find the next bleak village. As long as nobody knew him, as long as nobody tried to converse with him, he was _fine_ …

Horse and rider headed toward the city. Urged to a gallop, the stallion lifted his head. As the mass of humanity loomed toward them, the sound of hooves upon the frozen ground was the only noise to be heard, other than the thumping of a rising heartbeat which emanated from the man. Surely it would be easier to be lost in a crowd, at least here his horse could be comfortable; he could manage that at least.

The big man yawned and sat heavily upon the bench in the garrison courtyard. Legs astride the bench, the jollity on his face seemed at odds with the pounding he had been handing out to his comrades. He had spent the last hour throwing raw recruits from hay bale to stony floor, only to pull them to their feet, dust them down and, with an apologetic smile, begin all over again. It was only a shout from the smiling man, amused by the spectacle, that pulled him up short, just long enough for his victims to scurry away in seek of sustenance or bandages, whichever was needed most.

'Were you really enjoying that?' queried the spectator, as he lovingly cleaned his pistol.

'Nah, not really,' replied the smiling giant. 'To be honest, the novelty wore off afta the first one.'

'Perhaps you should be less… forceful, give them a chance to fight back, mon amie. You might enjoy the novelty!' The man looked at the fighter and smiled, his eyebrows raised, awaiting his friend's response. For a moment, it looked as though the man was thinking about it, but then he caught his friend's expression and his face broke into a wide grin.

'Nah, definitely no fun in that.' He poured himself a cup of wine and knocked it back in one gulp. Wiping his mouth with the back of one hand, he then placed the palm of his other hand on his stomach. 'Must be dinner time, my friend. What say you we visit Serge and see what delicacies he has for us today? Before the other could reply, the big man had got up from the bench and was striding toward a nearby doorway.

'Aramis, Porthos, my office now!' The authoritative voice bellowed from the balcony above, and the two men swiftly turned toward the staircase and mounted the steps to the Captain's office, taking them two at a time. The men stood to attention in front of their Captain, not sure if this was a mission or a dressing down. They hadn't fought any illegal duels in the last couple of days, and neither had Porthos cheated at cards – or at least he hadn't been caught. No, they could think of no reason for their Captain to be displeased with them.

The older man turned from his desk and held out a pouch; it had the royal seal and so most likely held important diplomatic papers.

'These must reach the King at once. Don't stop, don't drink, don't fight. Don't do anything until these have been handed to the King himself. Do I make myself clear?'

'Yes, Captain,' answered the two men simultaneously, though they both looked a little startled at the Captain's insinuation that they would have done otherwise.

'We'd never do that, Captain,' answered the giant, as though he felt he had to defend himself and his friend. Looking somewhat contrite, the Captain ran his hands through his hair, looking more tired than usual.

'I'm sorry Porthos, I know that. The King has decided to throw a party for the Queen's birthday. As usual he has not allowed any time for planning but expects all visitors and guests to be comfortable and well-protected, both in Paris and on their arrival in the city. Still, that is my problem.' He gestured toward his desk, which was littered with papers and maps indicating the planning needed for such an event.

'Won't the Red Guards take on some of that responsibility?' asked the slim soldier.

'Of course, but you know the King, Aramis. He wishes to show off his Musketeers, and he thinks we will add a little extra pomp and ceremony to the event. He wants us to meet the various entourages as they get close to Paris and provide safe passage into the city and to the palace.'

'Well, we are more capable than them,' stated Porthos.

'And much more attractive,' grinned Aramis. This last remark drew a small smile from their Captain.

'Then what could possibly go wrong?' the older man said, and with that he gestured to the door and the two men smiled, nodded, then left.

The lone rider had now entered the city, and trotted his horse through the buyers and sellers, the merchants and beggars. The smell was not as bad as he expected. The last time he had been in Paris it had been summer, and the heat had not improved the environment – and it certainly hadn't improved the smell. Now the aroma of damp horses and rotting vegetables seemed to permeate his senses, making him wrinkle his nose, until eventually he no longer noticed it. All the while, he was taking in the various buildings and hostelries as he passed. His hat was pulled well down over his eyes as, even in this pale winter sunshine, the light seemed to hurt his bloodshot eyes.

Eventually he spied a farrier. The man stood in front of his forge, lifting his heavy hammer before it bounced off the glowing metal, sparks flying out like fire flies. No danger of fire, everything was far too damp. He dismounted and led the horse into the shadows, where he leant against a wooden post and watched the man go about his business. Horses came and went, he shod and pulled stones out of hooves, always with a gentle hand and a quiet word. The man watched as the farrier stroked and soothed the agitated animals, and he saw the way they quietened beneath his large calloused hands.

As the afternoon wore on, he began to feel the chill seeping under his leather doublet. He pulled the black woollen cloak more closely around his narrow shoulders and came to a decision. Taking in the name above the doorway, he moved his cold, stiff limbs. Leading his horse, he approached the farrier, who had paused to take a long swig of ale out of a wooden tankard.

'Thirsty work, Monsieur René.' The man stated, as the older man looked up.

The farrier smiled. 'That it is, Monsieur. That it is.' He gave the man only a cursory glance before looking up at the black stallion. 'My, you are a splendid fellow,' he said, as he lovingly stroked the horse's nose. In return the animal snorted softly and leant into the man's touch.

'You enjoy your work, Monsieur?' the man asked as he watched him scratching the horse's ears.

'I like horses,' the man replied with a smile. 'Not always so much their owners.' He tilted his head, and for the first time appraised the owner of this fine horse. At first glance, the figure that stood in front of him did not seem to be particularly noteworthy but, on closer inspection, he decided he had been in error.

Tall, he stood several inches above the smithy. His hair was dark, thick and wavy, and it did not take close examination to see it had not received any attention for quite some time, while the same could be said for his beard. The farrier would have called him dishevelled, though that might be rather too polite a term. However, something about his clothing spoke of quality. His apparel was well worn and certainly hadn't seen clean water for an age, but then neither had their owner.

If anything at all arrested the man's attention it was the stranger's voice and his eyes. He spoke carefully, with a clipped quality that spoke of breeding, maybe even nobility. His speech was succinct and indicated a dislike for chit chat. It was deep, rich, soothing, yet suggested an underlying steel, perhaps even ruthlessness, should it ever be needed. However, behind all that there was a hint of tiredness, a melancholy. His eyes echoed the sentiment, green and heavily-fringed, they seemed to peer into the farrier's soul, as if searching for an answer to an unasked question.

Feeling the need to fill the silence, the farrier spoke. 'What can I do for you Monsieur , is your horse in need of a shoe?'

The man hesitated for a second before replying. 'On the contrary, his shoes are fine – he is in need of good stabling. We have travelled for some time and I require somewhere warm and dry for him.'

'In that case, I can recommend several stables, Paris has many such establishments. Do you have any particular preference for location? The man quirked a brow, and then said:

'My only desire is for him to still be there when I return.' Though his voice was quiet and smooth, the meaning was quite clear. The farrier nodded his head sadly in confirmation. It was not unknown for horses to disappear after being left in the care of stables, both stable lad and horse never to be seen again; a horse like this would fetch a tidy sum and so the risk was indeed great.

'I'm sorry, Monsieur, I understand your concern. It seems nobody is what they seem to be these days.' For some reason this seemed to amuse the man, and suddenly he smiled. It was as if the sun had shone and, for a brief moment, those green eyes glinted with mischief. Then it was gone, just as the clouds brought gloom to a summer's day.

'I notice you have stables,' the man said, indicating the stalls at the rear of the smithy. The man shook his head slowly.

'I'm afraid I don't stable Monsieur , they are for horses whom I care for after I have worked for their owners.'

The man looked at him steadily. 'I have watched you this past two hours. You care for the animals you tend, and they are happy with you. I will pay you well to look after my horse.' The farrier was at a loss to know what to say but, before he knew what he was doing, they were sealing the bargain with a handshake, and he was taking a well-stocked purse of coins from the stranger.

'I am most grateful,' said the stranger solemnly, his hand resting upon his horse's back.

'What is his name?' the farrier asked, smiling.

The man hesitated. 'Roger,' he replied, with a look that anticipated an amused response.

'Roger it is then. Monsieur…?'

Again, the man hesitated. 'Athos,' he replied.

'Right, Monsieur Athos, Roger will be fine with me, won't you boy?' As if in reply, Roger snorted and pawed at the ground.

'Oh, one more thing Monsieur René. If I should not return in two weeks…' He left the sentence hanging in the air for a moment, 'the horse is yours.' The shocked farrier gazed at Athos, then gently shook his head before replying.

'When you are ready to collect him, he will be here waiting for you, son.' The two men locked eyes for a moment, then Athos turned to his horse. In a manner that seemed out of character, he buried his face in his horse's mane, and the two seemed to communicate in silence, the large horse nuzzling his owner in return. Then, without another word, Athos turned on his heel and strode away into the crowd.

The farrier watched the young man until he was lost from sight. Just then, his daughter appeared with another mug of ale.

'Ooh, who was that handsome gentleman?' she asked. And though Athos was long gone, the farrier continued to stare into the crowd.

'A lost soul my love, but one who cares far more for his horse than he does for himself.' The man shook his head as he led Roger away to a warm stall and a much-needed meal. He suspected that was far more than his owner would seek.

Athos felt more alone now than ever. He was alone, he deserved to be alone. Even Roger would be better off in the care of a lowly farrier. The realisation made him angry. Could he keep nothing? Could he care for no one? He curled his fists at his sides and waited for the weight in his chest to subside, and for his breathing to steady. Without even realising, his feet had steered him toward the nearest tavern; dingy and insalubrious – perfect.

He ducked his head and stepped into the foul-smelling interior – too many unwashed bodies in too small a space. At least as he headed further inside, he could feel the warmth on his frozen face. He made eye contact with no one. With his hat pulled down he headed for the dark recesses at the back of the room. He indicated to the serving wench to bring a bottle of wine – it would be the first of many. The voices around him seemed to dim and fade. As he lifted the cup to his lips, he closed his eyes and made a silent toast – _to despair and oblivion_.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

The King had behaved like an excited child as he inspected the invitation replies in the diplomatic pouch. Aramis and Porthos had watched with mild amusement as he clapped his hands in delight.

'They are all coming Cardinal no one has declined.' Richelieu raised his eyes to heaven before replying,

'That is most gratifying your highness.' As if there had ever been any doubt. He smirked slightly as he pictured the variety of responses to the Kings _invitation_. Some would be preening and preparing with relish; others would be griping at the short notice and horror of such a long and fraught journey. Let alone the extra expense. After all what kind of gift did one give a queen. An expensive one. The King suddenly remembered the two Musketeers standing patiently before him.

'And they will be greeted by my fine Musketeers in their dashing blue cloaks. Such a lovely colour, do you not think Cardinal? So much better than the red guards. Red is so _aggressive_.' Aramis and Porthos bowed partly to hide the twitch of their lips which threatened to turn into laughter.

'Indeed, your highness.' Replied Richelieu through gritted teeth. 'Aggressive soldiers what a concept.' The remark passed over the head of the Monarch who was far too wrapped up in his party to listen to his first minister.

'I'm sure you have urgent business elsewhere Musketeers. You may return to the garrison. Come Cardinal we have much to do.'

With one last glare at the two expressionless Musketeers Richelieu strode after the King as he trotted eagerly from the room. The two men straightened from their bow, Porthos let out a loud guffaw.

'You 'av to give it to the Cardinal, he does have a sense of humour.' Aramis grinned.

'But he was so right Mon Amie, red is so unsuitable for warfare, blue is so much more calming.' Both men laughed as they walked side by side out of the palace. Mounting their horses Aramis turned to his friend.

'The Captain did not say anything about drinking on the was back, The Wren?' Porthos grinned,

'Thought we might try the Red Barrel tonight.' Aramis didn't miss the innocent expression the big man was trying hard to maintain.

'The Red Barrel? Since when, did we patronise such an establishment?'

'Thought it 'ud make a change,' shrugged Porthos.

'Mmm, would there be a card game there this evening perchance?' Aramis enquired with a quirk of his elegant brow.

Porthos rolled his eyes dramatically, 'You wound me my friend. As the King's own regiment, it is our duty to patronise a variety of establishments no favouritism. Besides…' he added with a sly smile. 'I hear the landlord's daughta' is quite the beauty.'

Aramis fondled his beard and smiled. 'Well if you think we should. Let us bed down the horses and see where the night will take us. But the Red Barrel, it sounds so…aggressive.' Porthos clapped his friend on the back and they enjoying the joke as they steered their horses back to the garrison. Unaware of how fortuitous Aramis' words had been.

Athos had spent the afternoon in the depths of the less than honest establishment. He had only partially been aware of what was going on. He had made it a rule to sum up the people he was drinking amongst it had proven useful on a number of occasions. The landlord for example was selling suspicious items from beneath his counter, whether they were weapons or more likely stolen goods Athos could not tell. There had been a number of Red Guards in an out, surprising for such a run-down hovel. One in particular, had conversed for some time with the dubious Landlord before shaking his hand. Athos suspected money had changed hands, but it was none of his business, so he had simple poured himself another cup of wine. The fact that he was only at this point in the day finishing his third bottle was down to the poor quality of the beverage. The sour taste was a poor excuse for a wine and even Athos had to make an effort to keep the vile liquid down. And so, it was when Aramis and Porthos entered that evening, though he did not notice their arrival, he did notice the sudden lull in the conversation. He bought his weary head up and tried to focus on what might have discomfited his fellow drinkers. If the Red Guard had looked out of place, then the two Musketeers looked even worse. The big one forged a path to the bar whilst his friend headed toward the back and took the table next to Athos. Despite the warmth inside the bar Athos had removed his hat to replace it with the hood of his black cloak. In the dim light nothing could be seen apart from the occasional glint of his eyes.

Aramis glanced at the man but thought nothing of him apart from how warm he must be, the hood over his head earned him a second glance but the three empty bottles upon the table seemed adequate reason for the Musketeer. His attention was soon re directed to the lovely young lady who was making her way over to their table with a tray of ale.

'For you and your friend,' she said as she placed the tankards down. 'He's a big one, isn't he?' she giggled nodding her head as Porthos approached. She eyed the tall Musketeer with interest as he sat beside Aramis brushing against him as she laughed and returned to the bar.

'Wha' was all tha' about?' Porthos asked with a frown on his face

'Oh, nothing Mon Amie, it seems the beautiful Landlord's daughter might be a bit touched in the head,' he tapped his temple and adopted a sorrowful expression. Porthos let out a large guffaw.

'You mean she wasn't interested, you must be losing your touch.' He continued to laugh as his friend looked at him with a glint in his eye.

'It seems she prefers her men more on the well-proportioned side,' he smirked winking at the man mountain. As Porthos glanced over to the bar, the girl smiled and waved at him. Porthos turned to Aramis with a grin on his face.

'I told ya' this place would make a change.' He downed his drink and gesticulated for another as Aramis settled, resting his long legs on the stool opposite smiling at his friend's delight.

Athos had not registered any of the two men's conversation. They were happy and laughing that was about all that had perforated his senses. Happy, how long had it been since he had been happy. His hand clenched the cup he was holding, had it been a glass it would have inevitably shattered. He could not remember laughing, he did not want to remember. He had laughed with her, she had made him laugh. She was always smiling, loving. Now she was gone. It had all been a lie. The laughter and the love. There would be no more. He contemplated another cup of wine and wondered what kind of head such substance would leave him with in the morning. Deciding he didn't really care he poured another to find it was the last in the bottle. He downed the foul liquid in one go feeling his stomach recoil in horror. Perhaps it was for the best he didn't think he could face a fourth bottle. Perhaps it was time to move on. As Athos contemplated his wine a shout went up from the other side of the bar. Voices were raised as bottles smashed and a table was over turned.

'You're a lyin cheat!' shouted a thin greasy haired Red Guard.

'' 'Onest I won fair and square.' Answered Porthos raising his hands in supplication. Aramis sighed heavily and rose to his feet. He picked up his extravagant plumed hat and adjusted it on his head.

'I think it is time to leave Mon Amie,' smiled Aramis trying to disarm the angry guard brandishing a broken bottle.

'But I didn't cheat Mis, not this time,' he added under his breath.

'Then all the more reason to leave do you not think.' Once more he gave the guard a disarming smile and man-handled his friend toward the door. He seemed lethargic and Aramis decided he had probably been too drunk to realise he had been cheating. Athos had watched the scene with interest. He recognised the guard making the accusation, he had been in the tavern earlier in the afternoon. He scanned the other tables and sure enough the Landlord was nodding to a guard in the corner, the one with whom Athos had assumed he had been transacting earlier. Now cheating was one thing, and a fair fight well deserved. However, he had watched the Landlord carry the drinks to the big Musketeers table, odd as he had not delivered any other drinks to any other customer. He had always placed the Musketeers drink down first and the man had nearly always grabbed it and drunk it greedily as though he was thirsty. Now he may just have a big thirst, he was after all a big man, but Athos doubted it to be the case. Casting off his hood and placing his hat over his eyes he stood up slowly. For a man who had drunk three bottles of wine he was remarkably steady, but then the wine had been particularly bad. He moved deliberately toward the door and headed out in to the cold. There was no sign of the Musketeers and he hoped for a moment his instincts had been wrong. He pulled his cloak closer and shivered in the sudden freezing air. Then just as he turned the corner into a narrow street, he saw what he had been expecting, though it looked slightly worse than he had anticipated. The big Musketeer was lying sprawled on his back not moving. His friend was standing over him brandishing his sword ready to take on the four Red Guard who were approaching, weapons drawn with condescending smirks upon their ugly faces.

'Now your cheatin' friend aint so cocky is e,' growled the greasy guard, who had been playing Porthos at cards.

'I think you and I both know he was not cheating. So, what is this all about?' Aramis tried to stall the men in the hope that Porthos would wake up. The man had gone down suddenly without warning and his head had bounced of the hard cobbles with a worrying smack. If he had only had chance to reach for his pistol, he might have evened his odds. Though he was fairly sure the Captain would have something to say about shooting a Red Guard. Duelling was bad enough but, that was simply letting off steam, shooting was not. As it was, he now faced down four men flourishing swords and even he doubted he would be able to hold them off for long. Just as the first ring of steel sounded in the stillness Aramis was aware of a figure by his side. He was just about to swing around and parry the man's sword when an arrogant voice said,

'I'm pointing my sword at them, that means I'm on your side.' With that he lunged at the four guards and bought one down before Aramis had even taken in what he had said. Without waiting further, he too sprang into the fray making sure that no guard came anywhere near Porthos. He noticed too that the stranger was also dancing around the prone figure keeping the attacking guards at bay.

Two of the guards now lay groaning upon the floor. Athos was fending of the remaining two and from what Aramis could see he seemed to be enjoying it. In fact, he would have said the man was simply playing with them. Perhaps the three bottles upon the table had not been his after all. No drunk could use a sword the way this man did. He was almost sorry he could not watch but Porthos had still not moved and he needed to see how badly his friend was hurt. Kneeling by the man's side and shook his shoulder gently.

'Porthos my friend, wake up. Come on Mon Amie, this is no time to sleep.' Just then he heard the sound of booted feet and groaned once more. He turned around just in time to see Athos slash one of the two guards across the thigh. Three more guards had arrived but instead of unsheathing their weapons they grabbed an injured soldier and made to take them away. As Athos stood his ground the one, he had seen talking to the Landlord spoke.

'This is not over Musketeer. You prancing peacocks need to be taught a lesson.' He turned to Athos. 'And you my friend have just made a huge mistake.' Athos simply quirked a brow and replied.

'I shall endeavour to get over it, in the meantime I will be at your disposal.' He stared at the guard and held his eyes until the man blinked and looked away.

'Bloody Musketeers. I'll see you in hell.' He helped his injured colleague around the corner and Aramis let out a breath he hadn't even realised he had been holding. Just at that Porthos gave a low groan and began to move. Aramis turned to his side once more.

'Keep still Mon Amie, you have had a nasty bump to the head.' He ran his hands through the mans thick curls to feel a large lump on the back of his skull.'

'Ouch that 'urts,' moaned the man.

'I know my friend, we need to get you back to the garrison. How many fingers am I holding up?'

' Are yer sure those are fingers, they look mighty thick for fingers to me Mis.' Aramis had forgotten about the stranger until he spoke making him flinch in surprise.

'I think your friend may have been drugged, add to that this twine stretched across the road and I assume he went down heavily.' The words were delivered slowly and succinctly. There was something in the deliberate clipped speech which held Aramis' attention.

'Forgive me my friend I had forgotten you were there. I thank you for your assistance. I am Aramis of the King's Musketeers and this here is Porthos.' Porthos tried to lift a hand but failed miserably.

'It would seem you are in need of further assistance if you want to get your friend home safely before any more ill luck befalls you.' At this he glanced over his shoulder as if he half expected a hoard of Red Guard to come tearing around the corner. 'It seems you are not popular with the Cardinals guards.' Aramis grinned.

'That Mon Amie is a definite understatement.' The two men managed to drag Porthos to his feet and with his arms draped over their shoulders they began to make slow progress back toward the garrison.

'Tell me Mon Amie, how many of those bottles upon your table belonged to you, if you don't my asking.' He looked at Athos with genuine interest.

'All of them.' Replied the stranger offering no further explanation.

Aramis whistled through his teeth. 'Then you are a fine swordsman, I only wish I could have watched in comfort. I would like to see what you can do when you are sober.'

Athos simply arched a brow, 'I like to keep in practise.' The musketeer laughed at the man's curt reply. They were almost at the garrison gates and Aramis was glad. Porthos was not the best man to carry through the streets of Paris when he was half insensible. Aramis puffed in the frigid air,

'I love you Mon Amie but at the moment I wish you were not so big.' The stranger stared straight ahead before he replied,

'Perhaps next time you could offer to reverse the roles.' Aramis grinned widely at the quip.

'I'm afraid angry husbands are more likely to wish me harm than card playing Red Guards, but I will give it some thought.' Just then they reached the arch that led to the Garrison courtyard.

'Phillipe, Andre, give me a hand. Porthos is hurt.' The two men dashed to their aid and helped take Porthos from the men's shoulders. 'Take him into the infirmary,' Aramis turned to thank the stranger and ask his name. But when he looked, he had disappeared. Melted soundlessly into the shadows as though he had never been there. Just his own breath billowing grey mist in the frigid night. He scanned the area once more before shivering and hurrying after Porthos. Perhaps they would find their guardian angel tomorrow.


	3. Chapter 3

Thank you for your kind comments and reviews. I must say I am enjoying this very much. Especially the King and the Cardinal writing for them makes me giggle. I have an idea where this is going now. Poor Athos is in for a rough ride, but I am sure he can cope. I hope you enjoy, I apologise for any typos or poor grammatical errors, but I have to rely on myself to edit and check. Not the best strategy as the brain sees what it wants to see, and the computer isn't a lot of help. So here goes.

 **Chapter 3**

Athos took advantage of the young Musketeer's distraction and slunk back into the shadows. He watched as Aramis looked around with surprise, his thanks dying upon his lips before they could ever be spoken. His adrenalin rush was now wearing off and the poor-quality wine definitely taking effect. He considered his position and debated where to spend the night. Winter was very evident and even at this early hour the floor was coated with a glistening blanket of frost. By the early morning the temperatures would be below freezing and if he was out in the streets asleep, he knew he would never awake again. For a moment the temptation to simply close his eyes and succumb to a gentle death insinuated itself into his mind. If not for the whiney of a horse from the Musketeer stable, he may well have simply slid to the ground and let fate take her hand. As it was the cry from the unknown animal bought to mind Roger, perhaps his faithful friend would not mind sharing his stall for one night.

Aramis spent the silent hours by his friend's side. Once he was sure Porthos would suffer no lasting damage he lay down upon the bed next to his friend in the infirmary and drifted off to sleep.

The next day dawned bright and cold. As Athos had suspected. Paris sparkled as though it had been delivered of a light sprinkling of snow. The heavy frost made the city seem clean and fresh, no mean feat for streets laden with detritus and too many people for too small a space. Those that cared to look a little deeper might have found the darker side to the winter beauty. How many poor creatures had simply succumbed to the soothing bite of winter sleep? More paupers' graves would be dug when the earth finally warmed enough to embrace further unfortunate souls.

Athos had awoken early. The sun was yet to rise, and the sky was still dark. Roger had been pleased to see his master and had gratefully shared his lodging for the night. At least Athos knew for as long as Roger was stabled with Monsieur Rene, he too would have somewhere warm to sleep. He moved into the smithy, the fire in the forge still alight giving off some much-needed warmth. Athos had a strong thirst a gift from last nights foul tasting wine. He dipped the ladle into the Farriers drinking supply and gasped as the frigid water hit his parched throat. The fire had prevented the water from freezing, but only just. When he had had his fill, he cupped his hands and splashed the water onto his face. Whilst he was still gasping from the icy chill, he ran wet hands through his thick hair in an effort to … he wasn't really sure what - or even why. It was the first time he had given it any thought for so long. For a few minutes he carried out a series of stretches and manoeuvres to loosen his cramped limbs. Then with a last glance at his horse's stall he walked off into the winter dawn. As he gazed out across the rooftops of Paris the sky was glowing with the first signs of a new day. The pale grey was streaked with golds and reds as though the city was on fire. He sighed heavily and headed to break his fast. Preferably with a wine of considerably better quality than last night.

Captain Treville looked out over the balcony at morning muster. All his men were present, and he handed out the chores and assignments for the day. His eyes lingered on his best men and a frown creased his brow. 'Porthos, Aramis, my office.' Porthos groaned.

'He couldn't av eard yet surely?' Aramis managed an elegant shrug before replying.

'You know the Captain.' Porthos simply rolled his eyes and rubbed the back of his head.

'How are you feeling this morning, Môn Ami, 'Aramis asked his face full of concern.

'I'm thirsty,' grumbled Porthos.

'That is probably the result of whatever they put in your drink last night.'

'Sneaky bastards,' growled Porthos. 'Ya wait until I get my ands on em. I'll show em.'

'I have no doubt my friend but right now we need to survive Treville.'

The two men entered the Captain's office and stood stiffly in front of his desk. Treville said nothing but looked his men up and down. Aramis had dark rings under his eyes as if he hadn't slept and what looked like the beginning of a bruise on his jaw. Porthos simply looked like death.

'And what pray happened to you too last night?' Aramis and Porthos feigned as much innocence as the could manage. Porthos knew his limitations and lying was not a strength. His emotions always gave him away. He would let his friend try and talk their way out of this one. He just hoped he would not add too many ridiculous embellishments.

'Porthos fell over,' were the only words Aramis uttered. Now there were embellishments and there were facts necessary to convince. Porthos heard neither.

'Fell over,' echoed the Captain. 'And did you fall on top of him?' Aramis had the sense to remain silent in the hope the lord might take pity on him and provide inspiration. 'The thing you _fell over_ wouldn't have been wearing red would it?' The two men looked at each other and frowned as they shook their heads and appeared to be considering the Captains words.

'Red, no Captain,' Porthos managed.

'No, I don't think so.' Aramis muttered.

Treville looked at the two men hovering before him like naughty children. Sometimes he wondered how two such brave and responsible soldiers could end up standing in front of him with all the sense of two five-year olds.

'If I weren't busy with this wretched party, I'd put the both of you on stable duty for the rest of the day. As it is, I need you to accompany me to the palace. Perhaps listening to the King planning his party will be a more suitable punishment instead. I know it is for me. Be ready to leave in thirty minutes. And smarten yourselves up.'

As the two men exited the office with as much speed and dignity as they could Porthos looked at Aramis.

'Fell over?' Was that really the best ye could manage?' Aramis had the decency to look contrite.

'Well it worked out alright in the end, don't you think.'

'Oh yeah he really fell for that one, as stories go that was definitely one of ya worst.' Aramis sighed

'I'm sorry Mon Ami I was tired.' Porthos placed his hand on his friend's shoulder.

'I know. I daresay you spent half of the night hovering over me like a mother hen. What the hell happened anyway. And who was the stranger who came to our aid?

'I'm not entirely sure my friend but it appears as though it had all been set up in advance. I think even the card game was set up to entice us to the tavern. It would seem your recent winning streak has angered one too many Red Guards.'

'They get what they deserve,' Porthos growled. 'But last night I wasn't even bloody cheatin' Aramis shrugged expressing some amount of sympathy for the unfairness of it all.

'When we reached the corner there was a length of twine stretched across the road and you fell heavily, hitting your head on the floor. You were out cold.' Porthos rubbed the back of his head as if remembering made it hurt all over again.

'I remember my legs were heavy, I felt tired and my eyes were blurred, nothin' looked right.'

'You were drugged my friend. Or so our new acquaintance informed me. It was he who spotted the twine across the street. Before he helped lug your heavy load back to the garrison.'

'Who was he?' Porthos asked horrified at the lengths the Red Guard had gone to.

'I don't know by the time I thought to ask he had simply vanished into thin air. I know one thing, he used a sword as though it was an extension of his own arm. If I hadn't had you to deal with, I would have delighted in watching him bring them down. And I don't believe he was even trying. Oh, and that was after three bottles of wine.' He grinned at Porthos who eyed his friend as though he were exaggerating.

'It's a pity you didn't tell a story like that for Treville, we might have avoided several hours of boredom at the palace.' With that they mounted their horses and waited for the Captain.

Athos was restless. After one bottle of wine his mind was unsettled and somehow the noise of the tavern, though it was still incredibly early, was aggravating his already frayed temper. He picked up his hat and through enough coins on to the table to pay his bill. He walked out into the bright sunlight and almost grunted with pain. He shielded his eyes and looked around to gain his bearings. Coming toward him was a group of Red Guard shoving people out of their way and helping themselves to fruit from the market stall holders as they passed. For no other reason than curiosity Athos followed.

'How much longer do we have to sit here and listen to how many pastries need to be consumed by the guests. It's makin me hungry.' grumbled Porthos. Treville caught his eye and glared at the Musketeer before once more turning to the King.

'You know Cardinal, it is times like this that one considers family.' remarked the King

'Family Sire?' queried the First Minister warily.

'Yes, I wonder if an occasion such as this would be a good time to offer an olive branch to my brother.' The King examined his finger nails as if he had just uttered the most inane comment possible. Treville and the Cardinal exchanged a horrified glance before Richelieu calmly replied,

'Your brother Sire?' The Cardinal reiterated

'Yes, yes Cardinal, you heard what I said.'

'The brother who tried to overthrow you and have you killed Sire?' The King sighed and rolled his eyes.

'Oh, Cardinal why do you always have to be so dramatic.? That was then. I'm sure he is extremely sorry for what happened. I'm convinced if one was to invite him to the Queen's party, he would have the opportunity to express his sorrow for what he did. After all he was very young.'

'And very greedy,' muttered the Cardinal under his breath. He glanced at Treville as though the Musketeer Captain was somehow responsible for this madness.

'Your majesty. May I say that in this matter I believe the Cardinal is right. We have no reason to suppose the Duke has had a change of heart and to invite him into the palace for such a…relaxed occasion may result in the direst of consequences.' The King stamped his foot and clenched his fists.

'Not you too Treville. I thought you were a man of compassion and sense. I will not be overruled on this I have made up my mind. My brother the Duc d'Orleans will be invited.' Louis lifted his head in the air as if defying either man to express their opposition. Treville ran his hand through his hair and made one last attempt.

'Sire if I may, if you truly have your heart set upon this course, could I simply ask you to consider taking precautions.' The King looked at Treville with wary curiosity. Whilst Richelieu looked simply incredulous.

'Might I ask you to refrain from sending the invitation until the very last minute. The party is not for another four weeks and the Duke would not need more than three-or four-days' notice to make the journey to Paris.' The King looked thoughtful, but he did not dismiss the idea out of hand.

'And what might such delay achieve Captain?' Asked the King.

'Well Sire if indeed the Duke is still harbouring desires upon your crown it will not give him enough time to act. Three days would not be enough time to put any sort of plot into action. If I might also suggest that my Musketeers travel to deliver the invitation and escort him to Paris, he will be watched at all times. If the Duke is innocent of all suspicion, then no harm will be done.' The King looked slightly petulant but even he had to see the sense in the Musketeer Captain's proposal.

'Very well Treville, I will follow your recommendations, though I think you judge my poor brother far too harshly. You will have to apologise I fear before this is all over. Now I have a headache all this negative emotion is very trying. I must rest. Good day Cardinal, Treville.'

Those remaining in the room bowed and as the Kings courtiers followed the Monarch and closed the doors the two musketeers, their Captain and Richelieu could not help but exchange amazed expressions. What had just happened? Had the King seriously just decided to invite his murderous and traitorous brother to the Queen's birthday party. Richelieu glared at Treville.

' _If you have your heart set upon it_? Are you gone mad Treville?' hissed the Cardinal.

'You know as well as I do that once the King has made up his mind there is no changing it. Arguing any further would simply have caused him to become more convinced in the right of his idea. At least this way we have some control over the Dukes response. With my men delivering the invitation and escorting him to Paris there is no opportunity for him to gather support for any outragous plans for usurping the throne.' The Cardinal paced up and down the throne room and wrung his hands together.

'Well it seems the whole thing has been settled. I hope you are right Treville or the blame will clearly lie with you and your Musketeers.' He practically spat out the last words as he strode out of the room in anger.

Aramis and Porthos looked toward Treville who in turn was staring intently upon the ceiling. Aramis could not tell if he was looking for divine inspiration or counting the cherubs to prevent himself from hitting something. He suspected the latter. Eventually he turned to Aramis and Porthos.

'Well you heard all of that. It seems you will be journeying to the Chateau d'Ambois to escort the Duke to the party. And for Gods sake make sure he gets up to no good.' With that he turned on his heel and left his men to follow in his wake.

Athos had followed the Red Guard to a tavern not far from the garrison. They seemed to be intent upon spending the rest of the day eating and drinking. There didn't seem much coin exchanging hands, in fact they appeared to enjoy taking liberties from the merchants and traders of the city. They certainly didn't seem to spend much time guarding anything that Athos could see. He had tempered his wine intake and had only finished his second of the day. He could not explain why he had taken such interest in the activities of the Cardinals guard dogs, but it gave his mind something else to dwell upon - if only for a short while. He would still need to seek refuge in liquid oblivion if he was to sleep at all tonight. For now, he was content to simply watch. As day turned to evening the guards eventually rose to leave. Some not particularly steady on their legs. Athos watched them go then decided it was time for him too, to find somewhere less noticeable drink away the night.

As he made to pull his hood over his head, he sensed something or someone behind him. It was only his quick reactions that prevented the heavy object that now impacted his left shoulder from knocking him senseless. He sprang sideways with the wall behind him and pulled out his sword and main gauche. He shook his head, for despite the blow missing its intended target it had still left his ears ringing.

'I told you it was that bastard from last night. The one that stuck Boucher and Caron.'

'Forgive me gentleman for not recognising you, I'm afraid all of you Red Guards look alike.' drawled Athos. All the time looking from one man to the other. Six on one, not the worst odds he had ever encountered but then that had not particularly ended well for him, despite seeing off the opposition. Still if this was how he would go, then so be it. He had been courting death for a long time and his luck had to run out eventually

'If you gentleman intend to fight, might I suggest we get on with it. It is cold, and the exercise would be most welcome.'

'He's a cocky bugger aint he? Well let's be avin ya then.' The guard lunged, and Athos danced lightly out of the way, he saw the sword come at him from his right and parried it neatly. His main gauche left his left hand and embedded itself nicely in the one he presumed had hit him from behind. Richly deserved. One down five to go. Steel clashed upon steel as one by one Athos thrust and parried the adversaries drawing a little blood each time, he got the chance. He was beginning to tire. Despite the consummate amount of wine, he had drunk no real food had passed his lips for days. He had lost weight and the exercise was beginning to tell. Still he was not going to go down without a fight. He felt one of the soldier's swords slice through the leather of his doublet into his left shoulder but as the blood ran down the inside of his shirt, he ignored the fire and lunged at the aggressor - his blade running the man through. As he fell twitching to the ground his demise seemed to give the others and new lease of life. Athos gave a glance to heaven, not that he was praying, just considering once again which deities had decided to take what was once his life and tear it apart until there was nothing left but tatters in the wind. Just as his left arm was beginning to grow numb there was a cry from behind him. He groaned as he knew he could not possibly take on more guards. Of the six who had attacked him only three were left. One was dead and the other two lay moaning upon the floor. The odds were definitely getting better.

'Well good evening my nameless friend,' grinned Aramis 'It seems we meet again. And what is this? It seems you started the party without us. Shame on you. Well let me see. Three down and three left. One each - excellent. What say you Porthos?'

Aramis and Porthos entered the fight with panache and a little too much zeal. Well especially Porthos, Red Guards were just target practice for the man. Bored with the elongated sword play he grabbed the soldier's sword and pulled him in to a tight embrace, before lifting him high above his head and throwing him onto the ground, where he had the sense to stay. Aramis had winged his opponent when a loud shout went up from the street ahead.

'Put down your weapons, in the name of the Cardinal.' Aramis, Porthos and Athos looked at one another.

'Go,' said Athos, 'This is my fight not yours.'

'We do not abandon a brother under any circumstances.' Aramis smiled as he elbowed his opponent in the face without turning to look.

'Go,' hissed Athos. 'You have too much to lose, and I … I have nothing. Go! What use will you be to France in the Châtelet?' For a moment Porthos and Aramis stopped and looked at one another.

'He's right Mis. If they don't kill us the Captain will. And after today I figure e needs us.' They glanced at Athos who was still defending himself though now he was simply sliding his sword off his opponents, mostly to hold himself upright.

'Very well Mon Ami, but we will see this right.' With that Porthos and Aramis fled. They were not happy but as Athos had said, what use would they be in the Châtelet.

Athos felt rough hands grab his wrists and yank him to his feet. Only for someone to punch him in the stomach and kick his legs out from under him. As he doubled over retching onto the cobbles, he considered the ploy and hoped it was not one they intended to repeat.

'Murdering bastard, you'll hang for this.' Athos actually smiled. Perhaps there was a God after all, it seemed the decision was now out of his hands. As he rose on to his knees, he saw a boot coming towards his face and the night went black.


	4. Chapter 4

I came to Fan fiction very late, in fact the series had been finished for over a year. I have read and re read my favourites many times, so to see my own work being enjoyed is truly heart-warming. I thank you for your reviews and grammatical corrections. I'm afraid I teach Maths so my grammar is not on a par with my imagination. However, I do believe in keeping my standard of writing high, so I apologise if any of you are wincing out there. My aspergic wiring sometimes has me dancing from one idea to another without due consideration for normal logic. Still I thank you. Please continue to enjoy. This is a short chapter due to my birthday celebrations getting in the way. Mik.

Chapter 4

Athos would probably have preferred a state of unconsciousness compared to the sensation he was experiencing right now. Only vaguely aware, he realised he was being dragged through the passages of the Châtelet by two Red Guards. Best for them think he was still oblivious – if only for a few more moments. The flickering torches cast long shadows in the dank and freezing air. If it was at all possible the air was colder down here than it had been outside. Athos was not convinced the unfortunate inmates would survive the night; let alone the winter. Still perhaps for some, that would be a blessing in disguise.

The cell door opened, rusty hinges making a piercing screech that hurt his ears making him flinch. His shoulder throbbed and now his one eye refused to open dried blood crusting on his lashes sealing it closed. The soldiers threw him down onto the pitiful amount of straw. Rats scurried out of the way waiting in the corners to see if this new arrival would provide them with any sustenance.

'Enjoy your accommodation,' they jeered. 'The Captain will no doubt be along to welcome you in person very soon.' Their laughter echoed eerily down the corridor as the torch light faded. Leaving just the small burning sconces upon the wall. Their light pathetic, only allowing a prisoner to distinguish his own hands.

Athos rested back against the bars whilst he tried to gather his thoughts. There was no doubting his position was looking … unfortunate. Carefully massaging his swollen eye, he managed to ease it open, though the action made him wince. Reaching inside his tunic, he sighed heavily when his hand came away sticky and wet. Though he could not make out colour he knew what it was by the metallic tang. If it continued to bleed, he would not need to worry about a hanging, he would either bleed out, or die of infection. Neither had their merits that much was certain. He considered closing his eyes to rest. The pain was almost overwhelming and the perspiration gathering upon his brow just one more concern to add to the already growing list However, rest would only bring a different pain – memories that tormented his sleeping hours - and at this moment, he was fairly-sure which of the two would threaten to be his undoing.

By the time Aramis and Porthos had raced to the garrison both men were out of breath. Neither had spoken as they had fled the approaching guards, leaving Athos alone to his fate. It did not sit well with either men to leave someone behind, especially one who had asked nothing of them but gambled his own welfare to protect two unknown men. Back at the Garrison they could still see a light shining in Treville's office. Without waiting to confer how best to break recent events to their captain they took the stairs two at a time and knocked urgently upon his door.

'Enter!' a surprised looking Treville faced them as they almost fell into his office. Upon seeing the faces of his two best men he was on his feet immediately with an expression of growing concern. 'What has happened?' he asked looking his men over for signs of injury.

'We are fine, Captain, but we need your help.' Aramis gasped as his breathing slowly returned to normal. Wishing he could have said the same for the rapidly beating heart. 'The Red Guard have arrested….' It was at this point that to his horror he realised he did not even know the man's name. He had introduced Porthos and himself, but the stranger had only nodded, offering nothing in reply. He ran his hands through his dark hair as he felt the weight of helplessness.

'Who has been arrested by the guard, Aramis? You are not making any sense.' Satisfied that his men were not hurt or in danger he turned and pulled a bottle of brandy and three glasses off the shelf. 'I think you had better sit down and start from the beginning. I have a feeling I am going to need this.' He raised his brow as he placed two glasses firmly upon his desk in front of the two Musketeers. Aramis and Porthos shuffled hesitating for a moment before reluctantly taking a seat.

'While we're sittin' here he's getting his arse kicked in the Chatelet.' growled Porthos. Never a man for talking when he thought action was a better recourse to the problem.

'Who is Porthos?' Treville asked, impatience threatening to get the better of him. 'And whoever he is, nothing is going to happen to him tonight until his crime is considered in the morning - depending upon his crime.' The expression upon his men's faces made his heart sink. 'I know I am not going to like the answer to this question but, what is his crime?'

The two men exchanged glances before Aramis spoke up. 'He killed a Red Guard.'

'And downed two, maybe three others,' added Porthos before he realised, he probably hadn't helped. Treville looked incredulous.

'On his own?' he looked at his men as though daring them to say otherwise.

'Well there were six to begin with.' Offered Aramis, trying somehow to put a positive spin on a rather grim set of circumstances.

'Oh, and what happened to the other two, did they turn tail and run away.?' There was a murderous look in their Captain's face, his voice heavy with sarcasm as he already anticipated their reply.

'No Captain, we had to help him,' Porthos stated categorically.

'And why was that?' Treville asked so quietly they almost didn't hear him.

'Because he probably saved mine and Porthos' life. We owed it to him.' Aramis now calm, silently beseeched his Captain.

Treville looked into the eyes of his two men. He knew both of them enjoyed winding up the Red Guard and though he did not approve, he knew the idiots often asked for everything they got. But for them to become involved in another man's fight there would have to be a very good reason.

'I think, as I said, you had better start at the beginning.'

So Aramis and Porthos began the tale of how the stranger had come upon Aramis defending a prone Porthos in the street and, instead of walking away, stood by Aramis' side and helped defend him. Aramis explained the journey back to the garrison and how he had disappeared when Aramis had tried to thank him. Treville listened and went from angry to curious.

'He just disappeared? Without even giving you his name?' There was probably nothing particularly suspicious about that, the man was probably already wanted by someone, somewhere. Aramis simply shrugged before continuing the story.

'We were late arriving at the Wren tonight. As we reached the Rue de la Bûcherie the fight was already taking place. Six guards and the stranger. One was already dead and at least one was down. He bought another one to his knees as we arrived. Leaving one each…' he had the sense to look a little apologetic at this point. But as the Captain said nothing he carried on. 'Porthos knocked his out and so did I. That was when the other guards arrived. He may have been injured, or drunk or both. He was definitely tiring by then; difficult to tell. I know when he came to our aid the night before he had drunk at least three bottles of wine.' At this Treville raised his brows but still said nothing.

'He told us to go,' said Aramis looking tired. 'We told him we would never leave a brother behind, but he insisted.'

'He said we had too much to lose, and he had nothing,' growled a guilty looking Porthos.

'He said we could not serve France from the Chatelet.' Explained Aramis as though the man's patriotism excused them leaving him behind. 'You should have seen him with a sword,' said Aramis with something akin to awe upon his face. 'It was a sight to behold.' Both men looked at Treville with expectation. He rubbed his hands over his face then began to speak.

'So, let me get this right. First, a perfect stranger joins in a fight with the Red Guard to help defend Porthos. He then disappears without giving you his name. Tonight, you come across him again, once more fighting the Red Guard but this time he kills one and brings down four more. Finally getting himself arrested but, not before he honourably -though stupidly - sends you away as the worthier men. Oh, and he is a master with a sword. Have I missed anything out?' Aramis desperately tried to think if there was anything else, he could add that might lean in the stranger's favour.

'He was a gentleman,' offered Aramis rather lamely.

'A gentleman? What because he offered to get himself hung whilst you lived to fight another day in the name of France?' Treville looked at his two men as though they had lost their wits.

'No, there was something about him,' added Aramis this time more thoughtfully. 'He held himself in a certain way and his voice was cultured. Though he didn't say much what he did say…mattered. He was a good man Captain. He doesn't deserve to hang. At least speak up for him.'

'Speak up for him? I don't even know his name. And what am I supposed to say? He helped my two best men fight the Red Guard the night before. Yes, I know Aramis.' He raised his hand as the man begin to speak. 'I appreciate they started it, but I can hardly go before the King and the Cardinal and use that as an excuse.' The two men looked defeated.

'It's just aint right Captain.' said Porthos, fists clenched at his sides. Treville sighed.

He looked across the desk at his men. He knew Porthos had a big heart despite his reputation as a fighter. Whilst Aramis, always sensitive, was quick to find the best in others. But he also knew his men were no fools. Something about this stranger had gotten under their skin and they needed his help. Sighing he raised both hands in defeat.

'Alright. In the morning I will go the Chatelet and gain an interview with this stranger. At least speaking with him I can discover his name and hear his side of the story. Then I will decide for myself.' The look of joy on his men's faces would have made him smile if he wasn't already dog tired and annoyed. They had presented him with a new problem adding to the mountain of stress that was threatening to make his head throb. 'Now get some rest. And that is an order.' He gave the two men one last glare as they beamed and thanked him once again.

'We are goin' as well aren't we?' asked Porthos under his breath.

'Of course, mon ami,' replied Aramis as he tilted his hat and disappeared into his room.

Whilst Treville was listening to the ridiculous story unfolding in his office. Athos had finally fallen into a restless sleep. Pain and loss of blood having finally won out over stubbornness.

 _So much blood…how can it flow so freely when life is over?_

 _She is crying… why? Why is she crying? …. What has she done?_

The piercing screech of the cell door bought him swiftly awake, only to moan at the sudden pain that flared in his shoulder. His head was pounding, all memory of the freezing cold now forgotten. All he could feel was fire flowing through his veins.


	5. Chapter 5

I needed to get this down quickly whilst it was in my head, sorry if there are errors.

Chapter 5

The first kick caused Athos to curl in upon himself, in a bid to protect his already pounding head - the movement was pure instinct. Though he was already in the grip of fever it was insufficient to prevent the acute pain from registering, as the booted foot made repeated contact with his ribs. Lack of food and care had left them painfully exposed. He held his breath in anticipation of the inevitable sound of them snapping. As the pain flared all over his body Athos began the think the beating would go on for ever, still, he retained his slim grip on consciousness. He thought he heard voices, though not the angry sneering voices of his tormentors. Perhaps this was a sign that he was finally losing his mind. The kicking stopped abruptly. More angry voices. Then a whisper near his ear.

'This isn't over. I'll see you on the gallows.'

'The pleasure will be all mine,' Athos managed to rasp. Though the words sounded thick and strange upon his tongue, the effort causing him immense pain. Still, the look upon the Red Guard Captain's face registered he had heard, and Athos decided the effort had been worth it. until, the Captains fist had the last word, impacting heavily with Athos's chin. Wearily he smiled spitting blood, and hopefully, not teeth onto the filthy floor.

The effort to rise had left him panting for breath, he knelt with his head bowed,hands upon his knees. Athos tried to pin point where the pain was coming from but, gave up as it seemed the answer was everywhere. The cell door opened once again, and he held his breath. This time light flooded in from the torches the men were holding. He vaguely registered a sharp intake of breath from his new visitors.

'Mon dieu,' gasped Aramis as he sank to the man's side.

'Merde,' growled the big Musketeer. 'He didn't deserve that.' As he clenched and unclenched is big fists in frustration.

Athos felt soft hands feeling his head, he tried to brush them away, but he didn't have the strength.

'Don't mon ami, we are here to help, you are safe.' Aramis reassured the man as he felt him recoiling at his touch.

Athos registered another voice. Kind but firm. A voice used to being obeyed.

'How is he Aramis?

'Not good Captain. Apart from being a human punch bag or rather kick…,' he exposed the filthy boot prints upon the mans once white shirt. 'He seems to be running a fever.' He felt over the shivering body as he tried to locate the source. Athos winced as Aramis pressed around his ribs and the medic notched up one more reason to want to punch the Red Guards. Despite Athos's resistance to his ministering. Aramis finally discovered what he was looking for; when the man groaned and flinched in agony. His hand now resting upon a sticky fire near the man's shoulder. 'I need more light.' he shouted. As Porthos bought the torch closer Aramis could finally see the gash in Athos' body.

Judging by its advanced state he had received it during the fight in the Rue de la Bûcherie. He ran his hands through his hair and cursed under his breath. 'He has a stab wound, which is infected. It has begun to close, and I have not the tools to re-open and cleanse it here.' Angry and frustrated, he pulled a jar from his pocket and gently rubbed a pungent smelling substance over the wound. 'It is all I can do. We need to get him out of here captain.'

Treville could not make out much of the man. Aramis had blocked his view since they had arrived upon the inexcusable scene. Now kneeling in front of Athos he spoke to him firmly but gently.

'Look at me, can you hear me? I am Captain Treville of the King's Musketeers. Look at me.' The authority in the voice spoke to some part of Athos's brain that understood the need to obey. With difficulty he lifted his head, so his eyes were looking directly into Treville's. Treville was surprised. He had been expecting a much older man. This man in front of him looked to be no more than his late 20s – much the same age as Aramis. More disconcerting was the look in the man's eyes. They were green and arresting, despite the condition he was in and the treatment he had endured, they still held a sense of dignity. But there was something else, something that seemed to tug at Treville in a manner he had not anticipated. Those eyes held a deep and dark melancholy. Staring into them Treville could almost feel the sadness that emanated from the young man. He could not shake the impression that he would have felt the same darkness, even if they had met under completely different circumstances.

'What's your name son?' Treville urged. Athos tried to sit back against the wall, but the movement elicited a hiss of pain that bought Aramis rushing to his side.

Athos shoed him away with his hand but managed a small smile,' Mm fine...' Turning to the Captain he gave a small nod of acknowledgment and whispered, 'Athos, my name is Athos.'

'Well Athos,' said Treville shaking his head slowly. 'It seems we have an appointment with the King.'

Treville had somehow managed to gain custody of Athos, though the Red Guard Captain had insisted on his men accompanying them to the palace. Fearing they would simply spirit him away. They stood before the King. Athos between Aramis and Porthos in case his fragile body gave way. Somehow, he was managing to stand upright though neither of the Musketeers knew how.

'Your majesty,' bowed Treville

What have you bought before me Captain? Louis asked, a look of complete disgust upon his face. there had not been time to improve Athos's appearance. Aramis had been far more insistent they get it over with, then he could begin treating his injuries.

Before the Musketeer Captain could answer the King, Richelieu interrupted.

'I believe it is the vagabond who attacked my guards last night. Killing one, and badly injuring four others.' His angry glare was tempered only by his burning desire to work out how it this involved Treville and his annoying Musketeers.

Instead of looking horrified the king's interest had been peaked. Always happy to hear a good story of death and glory. He grinned in anticipation. Once again Treville was relieved by the mercurial nature of the King's temperament. One could never be quite sure how he would react to any given situation. Right this moment however, he was glad. Maybe they could talk their way out of this after all.

'One vagabond achieved all of this on his own Cardinal? Do tell.' Though the King tried to maintain a superior look of disdain, his childish glee was all too apparent.

'Not exactly your Majesty. There were in fact six guards and we believe he had help from too others. Though the men they attacked received only bruises Sire.' The Cardinal eyed Aramis and Porthos with suspicion looking for any reaction from the men. Their air of innocence was distinctly unsettling.

'How thoughtful of them.' Louis mocked. 'So, six men were attacked by one vagabond Cardinal who bested four of your guards on his own? Why in the world would he do that?' The King looked at Richelieu in expectation. Finally, the King turned to Athos as though seeing him for the first time. Visibly intrigued, he said, 'Perhaps we should ask him? What is your name man?'

Athos had listened to the whole procedure through the thundering sound of his throbbing head and his rapidly beating heart. It was as if a dragoon of drummers attended the interview and were pronouncing his doom. Somehow, he managed to stand up straight and hold his head high. Treville had to confess the young man's demeanour impressed him. This was no ordinary peasant.

Drawing a deep breath Athos spoke. His voice was low, and despite the beating he had taken there was a sense of authority in his voice. He may have been down but, he definitely wasn't beaten. 'My name is Athos your Majesty,' The Musketeers by his side let out a breath, they had feared for a moment that he would not reply. There was something about the man that spoke of a deeply stubborn nature. The way he had brushed off Aramis's attempts to help with his injuries, or Porthos' help to hold him upright. Aramis had wondered if he would remain silent simply to protect the two Musketeers.

The King spoke once more, 'So Monsieur Athos, you fought six Red Guards why?' he with ever growing curiosity. Once more Treville and his men feared Athos would not reply. He certainly made the King wait.

Athos was aware of how precarious his position was. The Kings interest balanced on a knife edge but, he needed a moment, he needed to try and clear his muddled brain. He needed a way to exclude the presence of the Musketeers.

'I am afraid there was an element of misconception your Majesty. The lighting was poor, and I mistook them for brigands. By the time I realised my error I was fighting for my life.' Louis listened, eyes wide. Athos was also aware of the slightly incredulous expressions of the two men who stood so close to him on either side. Athos looked the King in the eyes, 'I was alone Sire. The Guards must have been … confused.' He had not blamed the Cardinal's soldiers, he had not really blamed himself, yet he had spun a story allowing the Red Guard to retain their dignity as well as explain his own behaviour. Whether the King would see it like that was a different matter. The Cardinal, however, was not having any of it.

'He killed a Red Guard your Majesty. And he is a homeless peasant. He must be hung Sire. An example must be set for the people.'

'Yes, yes, Cardinal. You do go on so. However, I suppose you are right.' It was then Louis seemed to realise the presence of Treville and the two Musketeers.

'What exactly has this got to do with my Musketeers Treville?' All eyes turned to the Captain - even Athos. Treville stared for a moment before replying. 'He is my new sword master Sire. He is not from Paris, from Reims. He is not familiar with the Red Guard.' Aramis and Porthos were smiling at their Captain whilst simultaneously trying to maintain and air of detachment.

'Really,' sneered the Cardinal, obviously not fooled by Treville's revelation. 'Well it seems the position is unfortunately vacant again Treville.'

'Sire,' Treville began, but Louis raised his hand. The storytelling was over, and he was once more growing bored. Aramis and Porthos began to panic. Whilst Athos simply hung his head. His remaining energy spent trying to retain his dignity before the King. He had known it would come to this. Still he was grateful to the men who had tried to defend him, especially this Captain, who didn't even know him. But he would not have such honourable men tarnished by association. The sooner it was over - the better.

'Silence!' ordered Louis. ' This has gone on long enough. I think a public flogging will satisfy the crowds Cardinal, forty lashes. Your Red Guard are not very popular after all and, a man who can best six of them is a man, I would like to see training my Musketeers.' Louis smiled as if he had made an incredibly intelligent and generous decision.

'Forty lashes your Majesty?' The Cardinal managed to splutter, his anger threatening to get the better of him.

'You are right Cardinal, magnanimous as always, we shall make it twenty. See to it Treville. I bid you good day. Come Cardinal we have a party to arrange.' The King left the room with a Cardinal who was practically emitting steam from his very being. He cut Athos a look that could kill before glaring at the grinning Musketeers.

'Yes, see it done Treville, at once. Let us not keep justice waiting!' Having had the last word, Richelieu stormed from the room clutching the small victory he had managed to wrestle from an untenable state of affairs.

The enormity of the situation hit Aramis as the Red Guards took hold of Athos' arms. Porthos tried to stop them when Treville interrupted. 'let them be Porthos.'

The Musketeers looked at him in surprise. 'It's the best we could have hoped for.' The Captain explained. With a sad look in his eyes he added. 'Look after him, bring him to the infirmary…when they are finished.' He looked at Athos expecting to see resentment or anger in his eyes. So, he was surprised to see the faint glimmer of a smile. Athos gave a small nod of thanks as the guards unceremoniously dragged him away. Treville nodded in return, but the feeling of guilt still weighed heavily upon his shoulders and he strode from the palace looking for someone to punch.

Down in the square the crowd were already beginning to gather. Word of the impending entertainment spread quickly, for they enjoyed nothing more than to watch another suffer. Giving thanks to God that it was not them. As the Red Guard dragged the already brutalised man up to the whipping post, they cheered and jostled for a better position.

Overlooked in the shadows, stood a woman. Her hooded cape shielding her face from any who might have taken notice. Curious to see who the poor unfortunate was the figure moved a little closer. She could only see him from behind but, there was a strange sensation in the pit of her stomach that drew her closer. It was clear the man had already taken a severe beating his left arm hung loosely by his side and there was a copious amount of blood upon his shirt. As there was in his matted and tangled dark hair. The woman doubted whether the man would withstand a whipping as well as the trauma he had already suffered. She was just about to move on, when she noticed two Musketeers push through the crowd. The man mountain, known as Porthos, was particularly aggressive as he cleared a path for his friend. They reached the front only to be held back by the ring of guards around the podium where the spectacle was to take place. Porthos growled and raised a meaty fist only for his friend to place a restraining hand upon his shoulder. With renewed interest, her eyes returned once more to the man as he awaited his fate. His hands were bound and tied above his head. Though battered and injured he showed no sign of defeat in his bearing. Once again, the woman felt the sense of premonition grow inside her. She felt an unease, it wasn't as if she was disgusted by violence. After all, violence was her trade. No, it was not the impending spectacle of degradation and pain that bothered her. It was the man standing tall upon the podium, almost goading the man to begin his punishment. She could not see his face but, something in her head told her it was imperative she should. Moving swiftly through the crowds, she remained invisible. The Parisians too bent on their impending entertainment to notice a lone-woman. She reached a position level with the man when the first lash struck. The whole crowd gave a simultaneous moan before erupting with a shout of unnatural glee. The man gave nothing away but as the whip was raised in the air once more, he turned his head, resting his cheek upon the wooden post. For a split second his eyes locked with hers before they closed, his face bearing an almost beatific expression. The woman recoiled as the whip made contact once more with bare flesh. She raised her hand to her mouth in shock. _Him_! How could it be? What was _he_ doing here? _Athos, what have you done_? The initial shock diminished, her face resumed a cold and hard expression. As the whip came down time and time again, she told herself it was only what he deserved. Whatever he had done, this punishment was only half what she had wished for him since he had abandoned her. As she let the tears run unchecked down her cheeks, she ignored the pain that had made its home in her empty heart. As every lash elicited a hiss from the mans cracked lips. She tried to walk away but she couldn't, if he had to endure it, then so would she.

Aramis and Porthos watched with horror as the shirt was torn from Athos' back. There was something about the pale skin that added to the mystery of this man's story. This was no vagabond or peasant. No man who worked for a living could ever remain that pale.

'I can't watch this,' growled Porthos.

'Yes, you can mon ami, _we_ will watch. Our suffering will be nothing compared to his. When it is over, we will put him back together.' He looked at Porthos and the big man nodded, though the look in his eyes was murderous.

Athos considered his position as he waited. He had been resigned to his fate from the moment his sentence had been passed. He was afraid he may even have been slightly disappointed. Having accepted the expectation of hanging he had made his peace, not with God. No, he had long forsaken that route but, he had made a peace, of sorts with himself. The King was delivering the justice he had failed to inflict. As he once more reflected on the turn of events Athos wondered if maybe hanging would have been too quick. Perhaps he needed to feel some of the anguish she had felt, the pain and fear his actions had caused her. But he felt nothing. Perhaps it was the fever, his head was growing hotter and he was having difficulty focussing on the crowd as he was secured to the post. When they tore off his shirt in the bitter, winter wind he almost relished the cold blast upon his heated skin. Then the first bite of the whip bit into his flesh. He groaned and pressed his face upon the wooden post to help keep his head upright. For the briefest of moments, he thought he saw her face amongst the crowd. A small smile formed upon his lips. Yes, she should witness this. It was her right. As the whip came down, two, three, four he seemed to float above himself. He would not cry out. He could feel the impact, but his brain refused the register the pain. Perhaps he was dead. Perhaps this was the end after all. If so, it was not so bad nowhere near as bad as he deserved. The tenth lash seemed to bring Athos back to reality. The criss-cross welts upon his pale skin had split open, trickles of blood ran down his back - stark upon the whiteness of his flesh. Athos pressed his forehead into the post, the rough wood biting into his skin. The new pain gave him something else to focus upon as fresh blood ran into his eyes, the pain in his back reaching an unbearable crescendo. The final lash ripped his ruined skin, he was vaguely aware of the silence as his legs finally buckled. He hung like a mannequin from the ring securing his hands to the post. In fact, the crowd had fallen into a silent hush after the fifth or sixth strike. Aramis had not kept count. The man enduring the punishment had not uttered one cry or scream in pain. The crowd had quietened down to try to make out his reaction. After that, they had simply remained silent in awe. As Athos fell both Aramis and Porthos pushed the Red Guards aside and ran to the podium. Porthos held him up whilst Aramis cut the rope around his hands.

'We have you now Athos,' whispered Porthos. 'Yer safe now.' It was testament to the feeling in the crowd that a soft sheet was passed up to Aramis from unknown hands in which he could wrap the trembling figure. He grasped it gratefully trying to erase the almost Christ like image from his mind. The prone figure, blood dripping from the sharp splinters in his forehead, would long mar his dreams. He kissed his crucifix as he muttered a silent prayer. He wrapped Athos in the sheet as gently as he could.

'I'm sorry mon ami. All will be well soon. Go to sleep, it would be better.' Athos' eyes flew open,

'No, I'm f f fine…' his eyes slid closed, but he still held on to consciousness. Much to Aramis's dismay.

In the shadows of the late winter afternoon the cloaked woman made her way toward the Cardinals rooms. She had seen him gathered into the care of the two Musketeers and then left. Her heart was ice cold, she felt numb. After wishing his death for so long she was furious at the tears that fallen unbidden. How dare they. How dare her traitorous heart cry out for the pain he had suffered. She dug her nails into her hands and hissed at her own discomfort. He had deserved every blow; every sting of the whip and she would see that there was more. If he stayed in Paris this would not be the end. Oh no, her revenge was only just beginning to bloom.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

The ride back to the garrison had been beyond anything Athos could have imagined. There had been no opportunity for wagons or subtlety. Time was now of the essence. He had passed in and out of consciousness as Porthos held him in his strong arms. They had had to place him on Porthos' horse facing the big man in order to keep his back free from further harm. If only they had known their charge better, they might even have seen the funny side. But that was a delight that still awaited them.

Aramis had arrived first at the garrison, thundering through the archway and shouting instructions as he raced toward the infirmary. Treville had been busy with the King's party arrangements, or at least that is what he had been telling himself. In reality he had been waiting for this moment and shot out of his chair at the first sound of Aramis' voice.

When Porthos arrived, holding Athos as gently as he could, both Treville and Aramis were ready to help relieve him of his frail load.

'Gently,' instructed Aramis, though they were already manoeuvring the man as though he might break apart at any moment. 'Mon dieu, I had hoped he would be unconscious,' muttered Aramis hearing Athos groan as his feet made contact with the floor. For a moment they all stared at each other. Porthos, now dismounted, held Athos up, the man's good arm draped over his shoulder.

Treville broke the spell by asking, 'How do you want to move him Aramis? We can't lie him on his back because of his…' The words died on his lips as he surveyed the swaying man before him.

'Well we can't let Porthos carry him because of his ribs,' replied Aramis, the sound of frustration creeping into his voice. All of them were amazed when the one person they least expected spoke. Though his voice was little more than air forced through gritted teeth, it still carried an air of authority.

'How… bout _he_ …walks…on h'sown feet…get th'sover.' The slurred words had sapped most of his remaining strength and he could not manage to lift his head properly to deliver the stare he intended. A stare they would soon come to know only too well. But though it carried less weight it still brokered no argument, and they soon had him propped between them as he limped toward the infirmary. By the time they entered, Aramis and Porthos had lifted him off his feet as he was no longer able to support his own weight.

'Damn stubborn fool, that's what he is,' growled Porthos, though the way he laid the man down gently on his side belied his muttered complaints.

Taking great care, they removed what was left of his shirt, Aramis using warm water to gently ease the cloth away from where it had dried against the bloodied wounds. Once they had established that almost all of his injuries were located upon his upper body, they went swiftly to work.

Aramis examined the damage inflicted by the sword and shook his head. 'I fear I need to re-open this wound in order to cut away the infected areas, there may even be fragments of cloth embedded inside that will need to be removed. It is not going to be pleasant.' He looked at Treville and Porthos and they nodded their understanding. They would do their best to keep Athos down whilst Aramis did his work. Between them they had too much experience not to appreciate what was involved.

'I'm sorry my friend, this is going to hurt.' He leant closer to Athos as he heard the man attempt to speak.

'That seems t' be happening ... lot …lately,' his words faded away as Aramis stroked the damp hair away from his burning forehead.

'We need to move quickly so I can work on bringing down his fever, and that's after I've looked at his ribs or begun stitching his back.' Aramis was bordering on panic as he felt time slipping away, along with the health of their patient. It was Treville who calmed the medic down.

'Aramis, we have saved him from the gallows, now you are going to save him from his wounds. Your best is good enough son. Now what do you need?' The Captain stripped off his doublet and rolled up his sleeves.

'Wash your hands in hot water, and I'm afraid we will have to lie him on his back, there is no other way for me to access his wound. I'm sorry Athos, if there was any other way…' Tears filled the medic's eyes as he thought of the fresh pain he was about the cause the man.

'Ss…okay,' Athos whispered as he tried to open his tired eyes. He knew if he only gave in the pain would go away. Perhaps it would all go away. But he couldn't. Was he so much of a coward that he couldn't even do this? No, he would feel every bite of Aramis' knife, every cut as he sliced away the putrid flesh. If he could have asked the medic to cut away the frozen void inside his chest, he would have done so. He felt strong hands gripping his shoulder and legs and he opened his eyes once again in time to see Aramis approaching with his knife.

Aramis saw Athos' eyes open, _no Mon ami, don't watch, please don't look at me whilst I do this. I can't cause you pain whilst you look at me with such acceptance._ He cut into Athos' flesh and heard the hiss escape from between his teeth. His body arched as the Captain and Porthos struggled to hold him down. 'Don't fight us Athos, it's alright to let go. You don't need to do this,' pleaded Aramis.

'I think he does,' mumbled Treville. 'For reasons I don't fully understand, I think he does.'

They continued to struggle as the man bucked in agony, making the sweat drip from the medic's brow until Aramis managed to locate a small piece of cloth deep within the wound. The sound of Athos struggling to stay silent as the medic delved inside his body would haunt their dreams for nights to come. Aramis finally poured brandy over the injury, so he could begin to stitch it closed. Athos' eyes rolled back in his head and his body finally went limp. For a moment all three men held their breath whilst the medic struggled to find a pulse with his bloodied hands. As his shoulders relaxed and he gave the smallest of nods they let out a collective sigh.

After that turning him over and dealing with the lacerations on his back was easy.

'I'm surprised they are not worse,' remarked the medic as he stitched closed the deepest one.

'Worse?' grunted Porthos,' How much worse should it have been?'

Aramis looked sorry as he spoke to his friend. 'I have seen such injuries before, where all but the first few lashes broke the skin and there was hardly anything left to sew back together.' The men grimaced at the thought. Aramis caught the Captain's expression. 'Captain?' Treville looked up to see both of his men looking at him expectantly.

'Money can do wonderful things gentleman, including stay the hand of an overzealous jailor.' He looked slightly wary as though not sure what his men would make of his interference. He was even more surprised when Aramis hugged him, whilst Porthos placed his large hand upon the man's shoulder.

'You are a good man Captain,' said Aramis. The stress of the day was beginning to take its toll as his hands shook, and for a moment his legs threatened to buckle beneath him.

'Well gentleman, let us hope our new friend proves worthy of our efforts.' Treville glanced at Athos then collected his jacket and walked exhausted from the infirmary. Porthos and Aramis exchanged glances as they looked down upon the man they had invested so much emotion upon. Only time would tell if their instincts would prove them right.

Athos lay in the dark. There was nothing, no noise, no smell, nothing. He could not feel his body, he could not feel anything at all. Was this it? Death? He tried to open his mouth to speak. He felt his dry lips crack, tasted blood in his mouth as he forced the words from his ragged throat. 'Anne…Thomas…are you here?' Nothing, he waited. He tried to turn, to look around, but there was nothing but black. He cried again, running his tongue over his lips, but his mouth was so dry it made no difference. 'Thomas…' he whimpered, 'why am I alone?' He stopped trying then, letting the velvet darkness envelope him. His body shuddered, and he knew no more.

Aramis and Porthos had flipped a coin in the end to see who would stay awake and who would sleep first in the bed next to Athos. Porthos had lost, or won, depending on how they viewed the result. Porthos considered it a victory. When Athos began to dream, he was not sure what was happening. He did not move anything except his head, which he turned frantically from side to side – anguished moans filling the quiet room. The big man could see the rapid movement of Athos' eyes behind the closed eyelids. Dark lashes fluttering on too pale a skin. Beads of sweat still covered his forehead and there was an unhealthy flush to his deadly pallor. He cried out, 'Anne…Thomas…are you there?' His voice cracked, raw and painful. His throat so dry. Blood seeped from the cracks in his lips and he cried their names again.

'Why am I alone?' The words came out broken and desolate. Porthos tried to place his hand on Athos' head to calm him, but it seemed to have the opposite effect.

'How can we help him Mis? He sounds so…' He looked at Aramis who had been awoken by the man's cries.

'We need to cool him down and he needs fluids. He must have lost a great deal of blood after the fight, and once again at the hands of the guards in the Chatelet, never mind the flogging. I will brew some willow bark to bring down his temperature. In the meantime, try and get him to drink some water. Porthos sat behind Athos and lifted him upright taking care not to further injure his damaged back.

'Come on Athos, wake up, it's Porthos. Drink some water for me, it will soothe your throat.' He brushed the hair from Athos' face, but the man flinched as if he had been hit.

'It's alright my friend we are here to help.' Aramis sat beside the agitated figure and held the cup of willow bark ready for Athos to drink.

Athos could hear voices, but this time it was no longer black. Now it was hot, fire ablaze all over his body. His face, his chest even his hair, flames licking all over him shrivelling his skin and exposing his bones. _I am finally in hell…that is why I am alone…no Thomas…alone._ He felt a sharp pain on his chest as Aramis rubbed his hand against his sternum.

'I am sorry mon ami but, you need to wake. Come on Athos, open your eyes.' Athos' eyes flew open and he reacted as the two strange figures crowded around him. He flung out his hand and knocked the cup Aramis was holding, sending it crashing into the wall of the infirmary. He struggled in Porthos' grip and the big man had to restrain his arms to prevent him from causing himself further injury.

'He thinks we are a threat,' said Aramis trying to calm the man down. 'Athos, it is I, Aramis. Porthos is behind you. Stay still brother or you will tear out your stitches, and you do not wish to go through that again.' Athos seemed to register the sound of Aramis' voice. The medic could see his eyes beginning to focus and then the sign of recognition. His breathing became calmer and he closed his eyes, only to re-open them again as he spoke.

'I…thought….was…hell.' He tried a small smile, but the effect was lost in the whimper of pain that escaped his lips as he spoke. Aramis poured more willow bark into a cup and held it to Athos' mouth, so he could sip it slowly. When he had had enough, he closed his eyes and his body went limp once more.

'Don't worry my friend, you are not bound for hell, nor heaven, any time soon.' Aramis stroked his hand over the man's hair as his breathing steadied and he slept a dreamless sleep.

Porthos awoke at the sound of Treville entering the infirmary.

'How is he?' the Captain asked Aramis. Aramis ran his hand over his forehead before he replied.

'He is as well as can be expected. He still has a fever but considering the state of the wound he has been remarkably lucky,' Porthos snorted as he sat on the edge of the bed. 'Well it's about time I reckon,' he said. Aramis nodded and smiled.

'He is not out of the woods yet; his fever could still spike, and then there is always the risk of infection to the lacerations on his back. He was not in good health before this began, and wherever he has been, he has not been eating well, his ribs are visible enough to count.' The men looked down upon the silent figure, saddened that he had been living so frugally; somehow it did not fit with the man's demeanour. They still remembered the way he had conducted himself in the Palace and his ability to remain calm in front of the King.

'Who do you think he is?' asked Aramis to nobody in particular.

'I don't know son, and I'm not sure we will find out much more when he awakes. He doesn't seem like the type of man who bares his soul to anyone, let alone strangers.' Treville had no idea how prophetic his words were. Not yet.

The Captain agreed to let the two Musketeers have the day to sit with Athos, though he warned that after that, one of them would have to return to duty. They sat patiently beside a sleeping Athos whilst Porthos played cards and Aramis read. The noise from the garrison outside came and went as the Musketeers continued about their daily business. Aramis felt he was being watched and looked up from his book.

'Athos, you are awake,' he smiled at the man and sat on the edge of his bed. He noted the way Athos edged away from him, so that their bodies were not touching. Perhaps you will take some more willow bark my friend? It appears to be working wonders on your fever.' Athos wrinkled his nose and looked at the medic with as much disgust as he could muster.

'Smells…. vile!' he managed to rasp, looking at the medic as if he had made it that way on purpose. Aramis laughed, 'I'm sorry my friend, perhaps I will add some honey to soothe your throat and make it taste sweeter.' Athos didn't look convinced. As Aramis helped him to sip the warm potion, Porthos once again provided a human wall for Athos to lean on.

'He's cooler than he was,' the big man confirmed.

'Yes, his fever has broken and hopefully, when we change the bandages on his back, we will find nothing for us to worry about.'

'Thank…you…saved…my life.' Athos managed to mumble. Aramis smiled, 'We are only returning the favour my friend.'

Athos looked puzzled. 'What…favour?' Aramis looked at Porthos in concern for a moment, fearing that the man did not remember.

'You helped me stand against the Red Guard when Porthos was injured. Do you remember?' Both men waited expectantly to see if he recollected the fight.

'Twas …nothing…couldn't leave…not right...' His eyes slid shut and Porthos laid him back upon the bed.

'He doesn't understand,' Porthos reasoned.

'I think he does,' Aramis considered. 'But I think to him there was never any other course of action, it was the honourable thing to do.' Both men puzzled over the stranger - he was becoming more of an enigma with every word he uttered.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Following Athos' punishment, the Cardinal had still been seething. Having watched the man tied to the whipping post, he had turned away. The crowd's first cheer reached his ears and he winced - flogging was a punishment he took little enjoyment in. So prolonged and drawn out, so loud; a good hanging was so much more efficient. His residence at the Palace was large and frugal, after all he was a man of God, renouncing all worldly vice. Instinctively, he was aware of the figure lurking in the shadows of his apartments, of course he was, he had sent for her and she was his to command. Without turning toward her or showing any indication he was aware of her presence, he addressed her. His tone was bored but the inflection indicating more interest than he desired.

'You witnessed the spectacle below I take it?' He knew that she had, for he had watched her as she edged closer to the victim, presumably to maximise her appreciation of the event. Still, he could not complain, her voracity for violence was, after all, what he paid her for.

She tried to emulate his lack of interest as she sauntered around the room examining the trappings of his calling.

'What had he done?' She kept her voice as level and monotone as she could.

'He killed one of my Red Guard and injured at least four others, maybe more depending on whose story you believe.' He spat out the words, his frustration evident.

'Impressive!' she dared to utter, knowing it would agitate Richelieu. 'And he did not hang?' she queried.

'No! His Majesty decided a public flogging would suffice. Treville had to get involved, of course. He said the man was his new Swordsman employed to train the cadets, but he was lying.'

'Why would Treville wish to lie to save a stranger from execution?' She now sounded genuinely interested.

'I don't know my dear that is what I would like to know. And how do you know he is a stranger?' Her heartbeat increased, she smiled disarmingly at the man she despised as she sashayed over to his desk.

'Because I make it my business to know. I have not heard of anyone hired to teach sword skills at the garrison, and I would have done so had it been true.'

'Are you sure?' The Cardinal latched on to her words with a sudden eagerness.

'Of course, I am sure, I pay my informants well.' She wondered if she could risk more questions. 'Who was he?' She played with her hair and gazed out of the window. The crowd had long since dispersed now that the fun was over. She wondered how he had fared, if indeed he still lived. She focussed back upon the Cardinal, she could not afford to miss what he might reveal.

'His name was Athos. He did not act like a swordmaster. His demeanour was…confident, he looked the King straight in the eye, no sign that he was intimidated at all. Most odd, don't you think?' She shrugged her pale shoulders and decided it was time to change the subject.

'You called for me, how can I be of assistance?' Feigning indifference, she hoped he had not thought her interest in Athos unusual.

The Cardinal had watched her walk around the room, fidgeting with one object then another. She was nervous, she played with her hair as though she didn't care but her curiosity was peaked. Why? He would have to dig and see what was hidden underneath the layers of dirt, discover what secrets lay buried. With a smile that showed only on his lips, he smoothed his robes and sat down at his desk.

'Yes, to business. Keep your ear to the ground. You say you have informants at the garrison - I want to know exactly when, and who, will deliver the invitation to Gaston. I cannot have the Duke in Paris for the party - it would upset my plans. He is nuisance I can do without.'

'What will you do? Kill him?'

'No, not yet, it will suffice if the invitation fails to reach its destination. No one would be the wiser and with Treville's plan to send it as late as possible, by the time the King realises what has happened, the party will be over.' Smiling at his calculated plan, he indicated that the interview was over. She acknowledged her dismissal and turned to leave the room.

'And by the way,' sneered Richelieu, 'if you have any information on our arrogant stranger, you _will_ tell me…won't you?' The question was delivered like a blade in the back. He was a snake, his blood as cold as his heart if he had one at all, and Milady doubted that very much. She shuddered as his hooded eyes returned to his papers, the shadow of a smirk hovering over his thin hard mouth. What did he know?

It had been several days since Athos' ordeal, and he had been more than lucky this time. His lacerated back remained free from infection and the cuts were healing well. The stab wound in his chest had been tricky, and for a day or two it had been touch and go. It would leave the man with a nasty scar, but it was it was looking good, which was more than could be said for the man who would bear mark; with the threat of death now over, he seemed to have withdrawn completely.

Porthos could not understand why. It appeared the more Athos improved, the more morose he became. When the fever had abated Athos had professed his gratitude but tendered nothing in the way of personal information. He had gladly accepted the offer of books to read from Aramis and Treville, then - to their frustration - had used them as a way to avoid communication. Aramis, always the one to prise information from an unsuspecting victim with his charm and genial manner, had been thwarted at every turn.

'He's getting restless,' Porthos informed Aramis, greeting him as he returned from duty at the Palace. 'I caught him getting out of bed tryin to get to his boots. He didn't get far.' Porthos grinned at the memory.

'I bet he was happy about that mon ami,' chuckled Aramis, wishing he had been present for that conversation.

'Oh he was, he gave me one of them looks. He gets better at them the stronger he gets. Not that I take any notice.' Porthos looked serious for a moment. 'He ain't plannin to stay is he?' Aramis looked despondent for a moment.

'I truly do not know. There are times when I catch him pretending to read but I know he is listening to us talk, I've even seen the faint trace of a smile.'

'Yeah well, you could make a cat smile,' grinned Porthos. Then his own smile faded. 'You know he's not sleepin?' Aramis sighed. 'I suspected as much, but he makes it look as though he is and I was not sure.'

'Why?' asked the big Musketeer, 'He must be exhausted.' Aramis shrugged, and he looked away over the garrison roof top.

'Maybe when he is exhausted his demons aren't so powerful. Perhaps that is the only time he can sleep. His dreams are bad.' Porthos nodded, remembering the nights they had had to hold the man down as he thrashed and struggled in his troubled sleep, his nightmare ripping apart his tortured soul.

'Perhaps if he talked more we could help him,' Porthos grumbled, looking back toward the infirmary door.

'Maybe he will mon ami, if we can persuade him to stay. Treville is intrigued I think.' The big Musketeer beamed a mischievous smile.

'Yeah, he's been hovering around like a mother hen. Athos hates it.' He roared with laughter and Aramis could not help laughing too.

'Oops,' grinned Aramis as he looked over Porthos' shoulder. 'Talk of the devil.' Becoming serious once more, he headed toward the infirmary.

Athos was still seething that the big Musketeer had thwarted his plans earlier. After managing to sit on the edge of the bed, he had eased himself upright. He was staggered at the agonising pain that suddenly flared in his back, the scarred flesh stretched for the first time. From there he had managed several steps, when a booming voice had halted his advance.

'And just where do ya think ya goin?' asked Porthos, charging into the room. Athos had rolled his eyes and given him a look that radiated disdain.

'I was planning a stroll around Paris and perhaps a drink!' Porthos roared with laughter as Athos continued to glare in his direction.

'Right, in your stockinged feet, and you being barely able to stand up straight without wincing?' He raised his eyebrows and chalked up a small victory as Athos huffed and looked away.

'My boots were my first priority,' he mumbled, as he made to take another step.

'Oh no you don't,' rumbled Porthos. 'Now, you have two options. One, you turn right round and get back on that bed, or I pick you up and plonk you down there meself.' He held Athos' stare and awaited the man's response.

'That would be both unwise and ridiculous,' Athos drawled, insinuating the threat of retaliation should Porthos attempt such a thing. Porthos only laughed even louder.

'Right, what do you plan to do? Fight me?' The look on Athos' face set alarm bells ringing in the big man's head. He became suddenly serious and raised his hands in defeat. 'Come on Athos, make this easy for yourself. Aramis will be back from the Palace soon. If he says it's alright we will help you up and you can sit in a chair by the fire.' Porthos' expression silently beseeched the man to comply. He really didn't want to have to knock him out and carry him. Not this time anyway.

'I am not an old woman!' Athos snarled through gritted teeth, as another wave of pain travelled through his torso.

'No, you are a man who has been stabbed, beaten and flogged. Though for some reason your stupid brain doesn't seem to understand that.' The two men glared at each other, both refusing to back down. At that moment, Treville appeared in the doorway.

'What is all the commotion?' he demanded. His face suggested he was not a man in the mood to be trifled with. Athos gave Porthos one last stare and then stated, 'Porthos was just about to assist me back on to the bed. I was just…stretching my legs.' He looked at both Porthos and Treville as if to invite either of them to challenge his statement.

'Good, then I can resume something more important than supervising the nursery!' growled the Captain, fixing both men with an icy stare, before turning on his heel and leaving.

'He's nearly as good as you,' Porthos remarked, but he doesn't get as much practice.' As if to prove Porthos' theory correct, Athos glared at the man before realising the trap he had fallen into, giving the faintest twitch of the lips as Porthos roared with laughter. The Musketeer helped him back into bed and offered to play cards with him until Aramis arrived. Athos merely gave him a look that said such a thing was highly unlikely. Porthos shrugged in frustration before he too left the man to brood on his own - if that was how he preferred it, let him get on with it.

As Athos sat propped up against an army of pillows, he heard the beat of horses' hooves as they rode through the gate of the garrison. Hurried but not urgent. Aramis and his brothers back from their duty at the Palace. He listened. He had become used to the sounds of life within the garrison walls. The horses coming and going, the clash of steel as the men sparred. Even the grunts of pain as they thudded to the ground - he knew they were victims of Porthos, as such sounds were usually accompanied by the big man's booming laughter. It had gone quiet, then he heard that unmistakable laugh and decided that Aramis had indeed returned. It was time he got up. Learning from his mistakes of the morning, he straightened up more slowly. Stooping slightly, he gingerly made his way over to his boots. Bending to pick them up was tricky, as was steadying himself whilst he lifted one foot and then the other to pull them on. He checked his left foot before reassuring himself all was well. Then, taking a deep breath, he made his way very deliberately toward the courtyard.

He successfully negotiated his way as far as the doorway before leaning heavily upon the frame, fighting to steady his breathing. The pain seemed less, probably because this time he had been prepared for it. Breathing heavily made the wound in his chest pound but it was not debilitating - his ribs, however, were another matter, they had knitted well but the bruising was still painful. In any event, he was determined that he would not present a pitiful sight as he left the infirmary for the first time.

So it was that Aramis and Porthos found him covered in sweat and shivering in the freezing cold air after the warmth of the infirmary fire. His hair was still matted, as they had not yet been able to clean the blood that had dried in clumps amongst the dark curls. Somehow, despite his dishevelled appearance, he still exuded a superior presence, until he spoke, his voice coming out no more than a whisper. 'I wanted some fresh air.' Before he could say more his legs buckled, and if it had not have been for the two Musketeers at his side he would have collapsed to the floor. They exchanged a worried glance over the top of his head and draped one of his arms over each of their shoulders. Athos was still conscious though breathing rapidly.

'Of course you did mon ami,' soothed Aramis. 'Though perhaps next time you could inform us of your plans and we could make sure you are dressed more appropriately.' Athos nodded, grateful that neither men had chastised him like a naughty child. Following the incident he had remained unusually docile, accepting broth delivered by Serge, the garrison cook, and even managing some cheese and bread.

'I don't like it,' whispered Porthos.' He's behaving too well. He's planning sumthin. You can tell, he gets that look.' Both men turned and watched him pick at the bread and cheese on his plate. His face in fact registered nothing but blank acceptance and that was what caused Porthos to worry.

When Athos was once more engaged in a book of strategy delivered by Treville, the Captain sat down with his two men and accepted a glass of wine.

'How is he doing really?' he asked quietly. Aramis looked at the patient, avidly engrossed in his book, and sighed.

'He is healing remarkably well. Despite his appearance of neglect he is strong, and more stubborn than any man I have ever met.'

'I'll second that,' toasted Porthos grinning. The Captain studied the man before he asked, 'Has he told you anything?' Aramis shook his head.

'Nothing. He has the uncanny knack of turning a question back upon the person asking it; or he just says nothing at all.' He raised his brows and gave an elegant shrug of his shoulders to indicate his irritation. Treville looked at the two men.

'What do you think?' The two Musketeers looked at one another before Porthos replied.

'He's no peasant, that's for sure,' Aramis concurred. Porthos continued, 'Apart from the calluses left by his sword, his hands are soft. He has never undertaken manual work, and he is far too pale to have spent much time out of doors. He can read - Latin too. But it's the way he speaks…' he left the remainder of the sentence hanging in the air.

'Perhaps a disinherited second son, or someone turned out from a noble family,' suggested Aramis.

'Perhaps,' said Treville thoughtfully. 'Maybe he will tell us eventually.' But his voice did not carry much conviction. The conversation turned to the King's party for the Queen and the plans that were being made.

'You will not deliver the invitation to the Duc d'Orleans until the last possible moment,' instructed Treville. The three men turned in surprise as Athos spoke - they had all but forgotten he was there. 'The King is inviting Gaston to the party?' he said, his expression incredulous.

The three Musketeers looked at each other. The fact was that they knew nothing about this man at all. He could be anybody. Just because their instincts cried out that he was a good and honourable man, it was no justification to discuss matters of state in front of him.

'How did you know about the party?' Treville asked. Sensing the men's caution Athos, realised this was no time for a curt rebuff.

'There is hardly anyone in Paris that does not. Despite the ambiguous nature of the Queen's popularity, and complaints regarding the lavish expense, plenty of traders make good coin servicing such an event.' All three men looked in wonder. They had never heard the man say so much in all the time they had known him, even when he had explained himself before the King.

'Do you not favour the Queen?' asked Aramis, his casual tone belying the seriousness of the question. Athos looked at the medic - his face registered nothing, but his voice said it all.

'I am French and she is my Queen. I would give my life for her.' There was no doubt in the minds of the three men who heard his declaration that he had given an honest reply. Nobody stirred for several moments. The room was warm and the evening had passed into night without anyone noticing. The weather outside had taken a turn for the worse, and the sound of wind and rain lashing upon the window added to the tense atmosphere. Treville watched the firelight play upon the face of the man in whom he was about to place his trust. If their suspicions were correct as to what type of man this stranger might be, it still did not explain his current situation, nor how he had been living before his arrival the night he met Aramis. Strangely, it seemed as though he had always been part of their lives, though Treville was doubtful as to how much longer the young man would remain.

Treville seemed to come to a decision. His voice appeared loud in the stillness that had followed Athos' avowal. 'The King has decided that the Queen's party would be the ideal opportunity to bring his brother back into the family fold.' He watched the young man as he gave the Captain's words some thought.

'And was the Cardinal in agreement? I cannot believe he was.' All three men grinned, then looked serious once more.

'I thought he was goin to have a fit,' snorted Porthos

'Then we are supposed to believe this was the Kings idea?' suggested Athos, feeling his way around the reactions of the men in the room. Treville looked puzzled, 'What do you mean?'

'Does anyone else have the ear of the King at the moment other than the Cardinal?' The Captain considered the question and then replied.

'The occasional court favourite, but none that I am aware of at present.' All three men looked at Athos, awaiting his response.

'When did the King decide to hold this party for the Queen?' Treville was beginning to follow Athos' train of thought.

'A matter of weeks ago. Then only last week he suggested inviting the Duke as well.'

'So we are supposed to believe that the King, who hates everything cold and wet, decides to throw a birthday party for the Queen in the middle of winter, when the roads are at their worst. His guests, if they arrive, will be trapped indoors, no games, no hunting. He then decides to invite the brother who betrayed him and tried to have him killed so he could take his crown, a brother who has never shown any sibling affection or remorse for his actions?' He paused whilst the men considered what he had said. 'If I was a gambling man, which I am not…' He gave Porthos a wicked twinkle before he continued. 'I would say that someone was influencing the King's decisions. Is it possible he has been in touch with his brother in secret' He looked at the Musketeers to see how they would respond to such a suggestion. Treville ran his hand through his sandy hair and looked stricken.

'My God, if that is so then he will have had months, perhaps even longer to plan. We may already be too late!'


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

The next morning the storm had passed, and the November morning was freezing; breath rising from each of the men swirled and swooped like wraiths of the dead. Aramis shivered with more than just the cold as he watched the frigid air move and dance before his eyes. Athos had been seated at their favourite bench when he had arrived at the garrison this morning. Aramis had needed some time away from the garrison after discussing the security of the King's party late into the night. It had been the first time he had spent the night elsewhere since Athos' arrival, but he had been happy to leave him in Porthos' large and capable hands. Despite his gruff demeanour, Aramis had watched how Porthos hovered over the sick man, gently soothing him when his demons threatened to overwhelm him in the silent hours of the night.

He had been observing Athos shout words of encouragement to the Musketeer cadet and had seen him rise to help adjust the young man's stance, so he was not surprised when he took up his sword and began putting the young man through his paces. Aramis made himself comfortable and sat with a cup of wine to watch the spectacle unfold before him. It was the first time he had seen Athos hold a sword since the Rue d' Bucherie, and he was looking forward to it. A circle of men had now gathered around the swordsman as he tutored the young Musketeer. He patiently corrected his stance and his technique with a forbearance and respect Aramis had not anticipated. He hadn't realised just how tolerant the man could be – it appeared he had underestimated him. When the instruction was over the young Musketeer looked a little shell-shocked, though he could not keep the wide grin off his face as Athos praised his efforts. He thanked Athos with a deferential respect before walking away - head held high.

Athos had to admit he had enjoyed showing the young Musketeer the error of his ways; he had been a keen learner and his technique had rapidly improved. As Athos walked back toward the bench where Aramis was seated, the medic could see how the sparring had taken its toll, pain now evident upon his face. He managed to give Aramis a welcoming twitch of his lips, which Aramis had come to recognise as a smile, and he knew Athos would ignore his discomfort completely. The medic was just about to suggest a pain remedy when a voice called out to Athos from the middle of the courtyard. Aramis groaned. 'Not now Devaux.' He could guess what the man wanted and was glad Athos was tired, at least he would not have to comply.

'That was most instructive Monsieur, perhaps you would give me the benefit of your knowledge.' Athos turned to see who was speaking to him. The Musketeer was older than him, mid-thirties maybe.

'It would be my pleasure. Perhaps later.' Athos was about to continue toward Aramis when Devaux continued.

'Of course, the cadet has obviously taxed your strength.' Aramis rolled his eyes.

' _Don't let him goad you Athos,'_ he prayed silently. Somehow, he knew he was wasting his words to God. Athos' reaction was inevitable. The swordsman considered the Musketeer for a moment before swinging his sword in a series of arcs, as if feeling its weight for the first time. Then he smiled - if smiled was the right word; if Aramis had been an enemy, he would have found that smile the most terrifying sight he had ever seen. Athos walked back to the centre of the courtyard and lifted his sword, signalling that he was ready. Without further preamble he simply said, 'Then let us begin.' They danced around each other for a moment before Devaux made the first attack. He lunged at Athos, who simply side-stepped the move and waited for the man to react.

'You are over extending,' Athos said. No hint of judgement, simply pointing out the man's error. And so it went on. Devaux became more animated, swinging his sword in an ever-more aggressive and uncontrolled manner. Aramis could see beads of perspiration begin to appear on the swordsman's face. He was not yet ready for such strident exercise. Athos was obviously aware of his current limitations, for suddenly the man came to life. If anyone had thought he was impressive before that moment, the swordsmanship he exhibited now left the cadets open-mouthed.

Athos had had enough of this man. He flung his sword around like cat trying to chase its tail. He had corrected his every move, knowing that he was baiting the man and his temper would eventually get the better of him. However, he had been fighting for some time and he felt himself beginning to tire. This was the first time he had fought since incurring his injuries, and he knew he was not yet ready for such prolonged activity. Time to finish it. He lunged at his opponent taking him completely by surprise. So far, he had let Devaux lead the duel, simply parrying and deflecting his blade and trying to give him some genuine instruction. Now he was on the offensive, and what a sight it was. His arm and sword cut through the air as one, he twisted and lunged, flinging the surprised man's sword into the air as he did so. Devaux staggered back against the post beneath Treville's office and found Athos' blade at his throat before his brain had even registering what was happening. From the moment Athos had decided he was going on the offensive, it had been over in a matter of seconds. Devaux seethed and hissed at Athos, their faces mere inches apart.

'You peasant bastard, this isn't finished!' He staggered breathless towards a group of Musketeers who offered him muted and somewhat deflated commiserations, whilst glancing at Athos with something akin to fear in their eyes.

'Head over heart, Devaux. Unless you control it, your temper will always be your downfall.' The clear, clipped words were delivered so that they carried across the courtyard to his beaten opponent. The confident tone with just a hint of arrogance affected Devaux like a whip.

'You goaded me, you arrogant upstart. You did it deliberately. I won't forget this.' With that he turned and strode into the refectory, closely followed by his acolytes.

Treville had been standing on the balcony outside his office. He often come outside to watch his men when the mound of paperwork, or some nagging problem, threatened to overcome him. And after last night his head ached with supposition and intrigue. He had watched Athos patiently instructing the cadet and had been impressed. The man had been encouraging but firm, leading by example. The cadet's reaction had spoken volumes, his heightened self-esteem evident in his manner as he thanked and left the swordsman in the courtyard. He had been about to return to his work when he had heard Devaux issue his undisguised challenge to Athos. Like Aramis, he knew Athos was not as fit as he would like other people to believe, and he hoped the man would have the sense to ignore the blatant taunt from the older Musketeer. However, he had seen enough of Athos' stubborn sense of honour before - even when it had been to his own detriment. Treville closed his eyes and lent heavily upon the banister as Athos turned and purposefully walked into the centre of the courtyard to face Devaux. Treville looked up. Still, if Aramis was correct it would be interesting.

He watched Athos play with Devaux. Though his instructions and tutelage were delivered with intelligence, there was no hint of condescension. The Captain knew it was infuriating the older man, suspecting that was Athos' deeper intention. As he watched the duel he could see, like Aramis, Athos was beginning to slow. But when the man raised the level of attack to another dimension Treville was as stunned as the rest - including Devaux. Treville couldn't help smiling as he watched the young man deliver an incredible display of swordsmanship – almost disappointed it ended so soon. So Aramis had been right. Treville was relieved, for although he had never doubted his Marksman's assessment, he also knew his penchant for elaboration. This time, however, his judgement had been providential. The young man was magnificent.

When the Captain overheard Devaux whisper his warning to Athos, he sighed. Devaux was a good soldier but a hot-head who over-estimated his own skill with a blade. But it was Athos' words that were lodged in his mind. _Head over heart._ Why did that phrase rankle? Somewhere in the depths of his memory he felt sure he had heard something like it before. He shook his head - it would come, probably in the early hours when sleep was as evasive as ever. He watched Aramis and Porthos rush to Athos' side as he almost stumbled on the cobbled ground. There was an interesting relationship developing between the three men. Three completely different personalities, yet somehow each complementing the other. If only Athos would comply. He was not a man to encourage the closeness of others; he had a darkness that surrounded him that spoke of self-loathing and the need for isolation. Yet, he had taken the time to ensure the Musketeer cadet had left the arena feeling good about himself and, if he were a betting man, the Captain would have wagered Athos had actually enjoyed it. Treville returned to his office with even more on his mind, but perhaps with a lighter heart.

Porthos had stood behind Aramis watching the sword fight play out before them.

'He's not up to this,' he hissed in Aramis' ear.

'I know mon ami, but you know our new friend.' He simply shrugged as if that said it all. Porthos just cursed under his breath. As the fight drew to a close, Aramis rose from his seat.

'He won't make it back to the table the way he is going.' As Athos walked away from Devaux his face turned ashen and his eyes held Aramis' with a plea that said _don't let me fall, not here, not now_. The two men were at his side in seconds. They clapped him around the shoulders in a show of congratulation that all three of them knew was really their way of holding him upright until he made it to the bench.

As Athos collapsed onto the wooden seat, he closed his eyes and tried to regulate his breathing.

'That was not your wisest decision mon ami,' Aramis chided gently. He raised his hand to Athos' brow but the man batted it away.

'He needs to learn self-discipline if he is to master a sword.' Athos drawled.

'That is not what I mean, and you know it,' Aramis responded.

'I'm fine Aramis, just tired. Stop touching me.' He pushed the medic away and closed his eyes; when he opened them again Aramis felt his heart ache. He wondered how a man who could wield a sword with an angel on his arm and the devil in his heart could still look so lost and otherworldly. It was as if two beings occupied the same body, fighting for his soul. He feared that one day one of them would win, and he was not sure which would emerge victorious.

After watching Athos down in the courtyard earlier, Treville had decided there was only one way to ensure Athos was not gone by the time Aramis and Porthos returned with the Duc. He strode out of his office and lent over the balustrade. As he expected, despite the winter chill, the three men he was looking for were sitting at the table below. Fresh from their training, they were flushed and enjoying a joke, and by the look of it the joke was at Athos' expense.

'You three, my office.' The abrupt invitation was not unusual, and the two Musketeers smiled to each other. Athos was surprised but followed in their wake.

Treville had given this discussion some long and hard consideration. What he was about to suggest was unusual. If it reached the ears of the King, he was not sure if he would even keep his position. Still, although it was a gamble, he was not taking it lightly. There was still the reaction of his two best men, but he hoped that he had at least guessed correctly what that would be. He examined the objects that lay upon the cot in the corner and wrapped them back up. He heard the knock upon the door and took a deep breath. He had decided there was no point drawing it out - he had already realised that when dealing with Athos it was best to come straight to the point.

He shouted for his men to enter and they filed in one behind the other, Athos bringing up the rear. Taking up position in front of Treville's desk, they awaited their fate. Aramis had done a quick calculation and decided they had done nothing disastrous since they had run in demanding the Captain save Athos from the gallows - and, even by their standards, that would probably take some time to surpass.

Treville gestured for the men to sit down, bringing an extra chair for Athos to join them. The man watched the Captain; he sat up straight not sure what to expect. Treville thought he looked as if he was ready to bolt at the first sign of trouble, or compassion.

'Athos, it is good to see you looking well.' His smile was genuine, and the two Musketeers laughed. Not only did Athos look healthier but Aramis had convinced him to cut his hair and trim his beard. The Athos that sat before Treville appeared even younger, as well as a little more intimidating - but Treville was not the kind of man to be intimidated. Athos, as usual, simply smiled and nodded. If he had been paid for the words he uttered in a day, the man would have made a pauper look rich.

Wasting no more time, the Captain asked the question they all had been waiting for. 'Now you are recovered what are your plans?' Athos was not altogether surprised, he had known that this moment was imminent, but still it made his heart constrict. Every instinct he possessed told him to leave, these were good men and association with him would only bring them harm. Still, whilst he had lived within the garrison walls, he had felt a sense of belonging that he had denied himself for so long. Even the incessant chatter from Aramis, his insistence on touching and hugging, even that had warmed some part of his soul he had thought withered and lost. Now he was being asked to make a decision. He looked at Treville before risking a glance at the two Musketeers who had given him so much. Aramis looked pale and Porthos could not even look him in the eye. Did they want him to go? Would they be glad to be rid of the burden he had thrust upon them? He tried to speak but somehow the words stuck in his throat.

Treville sensed the conflict raging within the young man, and decided to help him over the hurdle he had placed before himself. 'I have watched you in the courtyard below. You have a skill with a blade the like I have never seen before. A skill like that should be put to use, and I cannot think of a better use than to be wielded in the name of France and the King.' Athos looked at the Captain as if he had lost his mind. Treville smiled. 'I cannot offer you a commission in the regiment, I can only make a recommendation to the King.' Athos looked desolate, for a moment he had clung desperately onto the salvation he knew the man was offering him, only to have it snatched away at the last minute – like a drowning man who fails to grab the last lifeline he has been thrown. There was no possibility that the King was going to give a commission to a man he had only recently saved from the gallows, only to have publicly flogged instead. He hung his head before he spoke.

'I am grateful for your offer, but I must decline.' The smiles that had spread upon the two Musketeers' faces at their Captain's suggestion vanished, and they looked as desperate now as Athos.

'You do me a great honour, but your faith in me is misguided. You are wrong, I am not worthy of such a position.' His voice cracked, and he rose to leave. Aramis jumped to his feet, but Treville was quicker. He stood between Athos and the door, witnessing the deep distress in the young man's face.

'I do not think so, Athos. I have known and fought beside many Musketeers - good soldiers, good strategists and just good men. I know an honourable and worthy man when I meet one, and I think you are such a man, son. Which is why I want you to go with Aramis and Porthos and bring the Duc to Paris. Show the King you are worthy of a place in his regiment.' Athos gazed at Treville, he could not quite take in what the Captain was offering. Not a position, no, but a chance to demonstrate he was worthy. Could he prove to the King he would willingly lay down his life for France? He hardly had a chance to answer before Aramis, followed by Porthos, wrapped him in a tight embrace.

'We would be honoured to have you by our side mon ami,' said Aramis, tears in his eyes.

'Yeah, and that sword of yours might come in pretty handy,' rumbled Porthos, wiping his eyes as if they were annoying him. Athos had run out of things to say and simply nodded.

'I will not let you down,' he stated as he looked at the Captain.' Treville clasped Athos' hand between his own and nodded.

'I know you won't, son.' Turning back toward the cot in his room he picked up the cloth-wrapped parcel and handed it to the stunned man. 'I think these belong to you.' Athos placed the object on Treville's desk seeming almost reluctant to open it. It couldn't possibly be what he hoped for. As he pulled back the wrapping he revealed an elegant and beautifully-made sword. The winter sunlight that fell through the window reflected back from the silver blade. Athos caressed the sword and took it into his hand, holding it before him as though he couldn't believe his eyes. He stared at Treville.

'How?' The Captain chuckled.

'Gerard and I visited the warder of the Chatelet and had a little chat.' The glint of steel and mischief in his eye said more about that _little chat_ than words ever would.

'Thank you, it belonged to my grandfather.' The three men looked at one another, it was the first piece of information Athos had revealed about himself since he had arrived. Not that having had a grandfather was surprising, but perhaps it was the first chink in his armour that might eventually let them help heal his broken spirit. Athos noticed the small package still lying upon the desk. Taking it in his hand he could tell what lay inside by the shape. Carefully, he withdrew a gold pocket watch and opened the case. The sphinx-like expression gave nothing away he simply smiled and nodded at Treville. Aramis noticed that the remaining object he kept wrapped and placed it in his pocket. Feeling the tension building in the room, Aramis clapped Athos on the back, making him flinch.

'Now all you need is a horse mon ami.' Athos seemed to relax, and for the first time since they had known him his face bore a genuine smile, making the years drop away.'

'I already have one, and it is time I bought him home.'

When they left the Captain's office Porthos declared, 'Well I think it's about time we celebrated, don't yer agree?' Aramis smiled.

'Indeed, mon ami. But first I think we have a horse to meet.' They walked through the streets of Paris together, side by side. 'Where _is_ this horse of yours?' asked Aramis as they passed yet another livery.

'Somewhere safe,' was Athos' only reply. As they neared Monsieur Rene's smithy, Athos glanced across the street toward the Red Barrell. 'I take it you do not plan on patronising that establishment again?' He looked at Porthos with one of his best stares, but there was a twinkle in his eye and Porthos only roared with laughter. As they entered the smithy, the farrier came toward them. At first he did not recognise Athos, after all he was somewhat cleaner than when they had last met. In fact, it was Roger who hailed his arrival. The sound of hooves pawing at the floor, accompanied by excited whinnying, rang out from the stable at the back of the forge. Monsieur Rene finally made the connection and grinned broadly.

'Monsieur Athos, how wonderful to see you! I could hardly recognise you, but it seems someone else did. Athos patted the old man on the shoulder and walked passed him toward his horse. Roger tossed his head as he heard his master's voice and, as Athos stroked the velvety nose, he nuzzled his owner's neck in recognition. The two Musketeers could not help but be surprised. This was a man who flinched at every touch, who pushed away any sign of affection or compassion from a human, only to give his heart, it seemed, to a horse. As Athos tacked up Roger the two Musketeers walked back to Monsieur Rene. Worried that Athos could not possibly have any coin upon him, Aramis broached the subject with the farrier.

'How much do we owe you monsieur?' Rene chuckled, then grew serious. He nodded towards the man and horse, who were conducting a discreet conversation in the stable. Turning back to the two Musketeers he said:

'When he came to me he was skin and bone, looked like he hadn't eaten for days. I've seen men from the Court looking better dressed than 'im. But he paid for his horse - said he wanted to know he would be safe. Said he had watched me go about my work and could see I loved the horses, which I do. He paid enough coin for a month. But you know what he said?' Aramis and Porthos shook their heads, almost afraid to hear what the man would reveal. 'He said if he wasn't back in two weeks, the horse was mine. I don't know what he expected and I'm not sure I want to know, if you get my meaning. He was a lost soul.' He shook his head sadly. 'I told him, I said, "your horse will be here son when you are ready". And I'm mighty glad he is. I hope now he spends his nights somewhere better than in the stable with his horse. Though that's between you and me.' Stunned, the two Musketeers turned, along with the farrier, as Athos walked Roger towards them. He looked with surprise at the three saddened faces staring at them both.

'What is it? Has someone died?' Athos asked. No trace of emotion, apart from a slight hint of mockery. There was a moment's silence before all three men began to laugh out loud. Athos looked at them as though they had lost their sense of reason. 'Monsieur Rene, I thank you for your care. I have matters I need to attend to.' Addressing Aramis and Porthos, he added, 'I will meet you at the garrison in a little while.' With one last puzzled look at the laughing men he mounted his horse and rode away.

As the two Musketeers began their walk back to the garrison, Porthos suddenly drew to a halt. 'He will come back won't he?' he said, as a shadow of doubt flickered in his mind.

'Yes, mon ami, this time he will,' answered Aramis, placing an arm around his brother's shoulder.


	9. Chapter 9

A huge thank you to everyone who has taken the time to post a review. I know I have said this before but I am still overwhelmed that people are actually reading it, and more to the point, enjoying it. I have an idea where I am going with the plot, but who knows. I follow where Athos leads...

Chapter 9

Athos had left the farrier's and ridden to the outskirts of the city, where a house stood a little way back from the main thoroughfare. He knocked upon the door and waited. He missed his hat and without it felt vulnerable. He kept his head low and was glad he had not let Aramis cut his hair too short. He could hear the sounds of bolts rattling and keys jangling before the door began to open. A small, rotund man stood in the doorway; his clothes were well worn but had obviously once been of good quality. He eyed his caller with thinly disguised hostility. Athos bowed slightly and held out his hand, where a small object that caught the dying rays of the evening sun sat nestled in its palm. The man picked it up and fastened small spectacles upon his reddened nose. Suddenly recognition showed upon his face and he looked up in panic.

'Forgive me my Lord, I did not recognise you.' Athos glanced over his shoulder before giving the man a brief smile.

'It is fine, Jacques. Let us go inside.' The man led Athos into a room at the back of the house furthest from the street. He turned to Athos and said:

'It is safe, I have kept it just as you requested.' Again, Athos simply smiled, and the man retired, leaving Athos alone. The room was little used and full of junk; dust had settled thickly upon a selection of mismatched objects - decades of family possessions consigned to be forgotten. The sudden movement had stirred up the felted layers, sending particles dancing into the air like fireflies in twilight.

It grew dark early at this time of year, and dusk was fast approaching. There was no fire in the long-abandoned grate and the room was bitterly cold. Athos could see his breath as he investigated the corner Jacques had indicated, examining the pile of unwanted items. If anyone had bothered to delve deeper, they might have noticed the artful way in which a heavy trunk had been hidden beneath the jumble of discarded paraphernalia. He sat in a chair, sending a cloud of ancient dust high in the air, like a flock of startled crows. Clearing the lid, he removed the heel from the boot of his shoe and took out a key. He fitted it into the lock, and found it turned without any difficulty, the lock had been cleaned and kept well oiled. As he lifted the lid, the first thing he saw was his family crest painted upon the inside. His stomach clenched, and he almost shut the trunk and walked away. As a wave of shame and guilt slammed into him, the pain was overwhelming. For a moment he couldn't breathe. His heart was racing so fast he could almost see it. What would his father have said if he could see his first-born son now? The Comte de la Fère, a recognised murderer, flogged for the crowds' pleasure in the centre of Paris. Closing his eyes he tried to calm the turmoil that the image had set in motion. It was just a picture, it meant nothing. Not anymore. There was no Comte de la Fère, he was dead, or as good as.

Lifting the cloth that covered the contents, he dreaded what he might find. The trunk had been forwarded to this address upon his own instruction before he had shut up the house. He had not been so far beyond reason to not realise that he could not survive without certain necessities. But he knew Madame Renard, she had always been kind to him and it would not surprise him to find she had included items he would rather never see again. He tried not to look as he felt around for the items he needed. His hand found the soft leather of a doublet and he dragged it from the bottom of the trunk, shaking it out. Black, it would suffice. He found spare gloves, shirts and other such items. He could not impose upon the two Musketeers any longer, they had already been more than generous - besides Porthos' clothes made him look ridiculous. He was just about to close the trunk when something bright caught his eye. He reached down and grasped the handle of a knife. The main gauche had been a gift to his brother. Thomas had been so excited, and insisted Athos take him outside to show him how to use it straight away. Of course, their father had objected, and Athos had been confined to the house to be tutored on estate business, whilst Thomas had gone out with their fencing master to enjoy his gift. How Athos had wanted to share that enjoyment with his brother. Another lost moment, now there would never be another chance. He grasped the hilt tightly and thrust it into his belt. His task complete, he handed some coin to Jacques and left. He breathed a long sigh, realising he had been holding his breath from the moment he had lifted the lid. He mounted his waiting horse and rode back to the garrison. His heart was heavy, and he knew his sleep, if he slept at all, would be fragmented by the voices of the dead.

He arrived back at the garrison to find Aramis and Porthos sitting at their bench awaiting his return. If they looked relieved as he rode his stallion into the courtyard, Athos chose not to notice. He handed the reins over to the stable boy and walked over to the two grinning Musketeers. Athos eyed them with suspicion.

'My, my, mon ami, I fear I will have to get used to competition with the ladies of Paris!' observed Aramis, admiring Athos' new clothes. If he was at all curious as to where they had come from, he kept it to himself. Glancing at Porthos, he handed something to Athos which took him completely by surprise.

'My hat!' If Treville returning his sword had been unexpected, this was almost a miracle. He looked askance at the men, who were visibly delighted with his response.

'It seems that Marie, at The Wren…' began Aramis.

'The rather attractive barmaid,' grinned Porthos.

'Has a cousin,' continued Aramis, 'from the country, just visiting.'

'Named Jeanette.. .' added Porthos.

'Now it appears Jeanette took a shine to the nice young man who sat all alone in the dark,' said Aramis, raising one eyebrow.

'Said he was always polite and paid his bill with a little something for her service.' Porthos winked at Aramis, seeing the already bemused expression on Athos' face as he tried to keep up with the conversation.

'So the lovely Jeanette…' continued Aramis.

'From the country,' added Porthos, looking grave.

'Rather liked this young man. What was it she said, mon ami?'

'Said he looked sad and lonely,' Porthos replied, his face solemn at the suggestion.

'In fact she was quite eloquent. What did she say now? Was it something about a donkey?' By now Athos' face was a picture, and in occurred to Aramis that they would not get away with this for very much longer.

'Nah, it was a puppy, she said he looked like a lost puppy.' Both men looked at Athos in commiseration.

'On the night in question, she had watched you drinking and, as you left, she decided to follow you and ….'

'Try and cheer you up,' Porthos grinned.

'Only to find when she reached the street, no young man, just a solitary hat upon the floor. Still she took this as a sign and kept it safe, giving her an excuse to return it when the pup… - I mean young man - returned.' Aramis smiled, then grew serious once more. 'Imagine her distress when, several days later, when she was due to return to the country, the young man had still not come back. So she left the hat in safe keeping with Marie, who in turn gave it to me, in case he should find his way home.'

'Puppies sometimes do that,' deadpanned Porthos.

Athos had heard quite enough. He was looking at his hat as though it had sprouted horns and a tail, and when he looked up, he gave them a stare which would have stopped a charging bull in its tracks.' The only effect was to cause Aramis and Porthos to dissolve into laughter, the big man slapping his thigh in delight. The swordsman huffed and turned on his heel, and in a tone that dripped disdain, declared:

'I'm leaving, and when I get to The Wren I am going to order several bottles of their finest wine, at your expense!' He pulled his hat down firmly on his head and, as the two men behind him abruptly ceased their merriment, allowed himself a small smile, knowing they could not see his face.

They had spent the evening in the tavern. Porthos had played cards, and had managed to keep out of too much trouble, winning some and losing some so that all parties were happy. Aramis had tried to make conversation with Athos, but it was clear he was more interested in his wine. They had not yet seen him so far in his cups that he would strike out at anyone or anything, and luckily tonight would not be one of those nights. They were leaving the garrison early in the morning, and even Athos had enough will power to limit his intake of wine. Still, he was some way down his second bottle when Aramis announced he was leaving to visit a lonely widow and keep her company for a few hours. As he left, he leaned to whisper in Porthos' ear.

'Keep an eye on him, mon ami, I don't like the look on his face.' Porthos glanced over at Athos who was hunched over the table pouring from his third bottle of wine. He patted Aramis's arm and rose from his chair.

'Goodnight gentlemen, it has been a pleasure.' This was the point someone usually overturned the table or at the very least threw the contents of their cup in Porthos' face in retaliation for his _inventive_ strategy. Not tonight, tonight they bid him a cordial farewell and returned to their game. One less thing for Aramis to worry about. 'Don't worry I'll see he gets home.' They nodded their farewells and Porthos walked over to Athos' table. The man made no sign that he was aware of Porthos' presence, though Porthos suspected he was well aware that he was standing there. 'We have to make an early start in the morning, how about we finish that at the garrison?' He had no idea what Athos' reaction was going to be but the man simply looked up and nodded. Relieved, Porthos headed for the door, leaving Athos to settle his account. The two men walked in silence, sharing the bottle as they went. Porthos made sure he drank deeply - that way there would be less of a share for Athos.

'Do not think I am unaware of your strategy.' Athos stated, taking the almost empty bottle from Porthos and testing the weight of its contents, snorting at the result. 'I will be ready. You need not concern yourself.'

'I know that,' grinned Porthos. 'I just don't want you to fall on your arse before your horse leaves the garrison!'

'I have never fallen off a horse in my life. Well, not since I was a child…' And before Porthos could add anything further, Athos turned with one of his glacial stares and concluded the discussion with, '…and I am no longer a child.' With that, he tipped his hat to say goodnight and headed for the room Treville had assigned him at the garrison. Porthos watched him go, and laughed to himself as he, too, mounted the stairs ready for a good night's sleep.

As the hours wore on, Athos remained sitting in his room, staring into the fire. He had heard Aramis return not long ago, his room being just down the corridor from Athos. He had recognised the soft tread of the Musketeer, a stark contrast the heavy stomp of Porthos. Thoughts of the two men brought conflict to Athos' conscience once more. They had invested time and emotion in making sure he healed. They had asked nothing of him and, like Treville, they were showing nothing but confidence and trust in his ability to behave as a Musketeer. He felt as though he was standing upon a precipice - one false move and he would fall into oblivion. If he failed now, he feared he would not make it back whole - not even with the help of the two Musketeers - but remain forever broken beyond repair. At last, when the garrison and the city beyond had fallen into silence and his eyes were so heavy, he could fight sleep no longer. Athos fell into his bed, dreading the nightmares that he knew waited to embrace him in their ghostly arms. He hated to close his eyes, there was too much death behind them.

The three men rode out of the garrison at first light. Treville had wanted to keep the departure as quiet as possible, especially the fact that the party included Athos. He had chosen to share the appointment of Athos as an instructor, explaining his departure as the need for him to wrap up his affairs elsewhere. As everyone in the garrison was now aware of the circumstances behind Athos' arrival, how many of them believed this he did not know. What he did know was that many looked forward to his tutelage, as his skill with a sword was already becoming legendary. Still, he was not naïve enough to not realise that Athos had his enemies, Devaux being top of the list. Had the Captain been aware of just how many people were watching the departure with interest, he would have been furious. As it was, he watched the three horses ride out of sight, before returning to the business of running the garrison.

If Athos had realised just how popular he was that morning, he would have blushed. In the shadows of the garrison, despite Treville's precautions, Devaux hung back as he watched the three men mount up. He hadn't failed to note the sword now hanging at Athos' side, as well as the magnificent stallion he rode. If he disliked him before, now he hated him. As they rode through the still quiet, streets, with only a few stall holders preparing their wares for the day's trading, they were unaware of the man who stood watching at the window as they passed. Flambaux, Captain of the Red Guard, and the source of Athos' broken ribs amongst other things, drank from his cup as he watched the man whom he perceived had escaped justice ride as free as a bird on the streets of Paris. He vowed that, if the King would not, he himself would see that Athos received the justice he deserved. As they rode over the bridge, Aramis and Porthos were joking quietly with each other. Athos was riding behind, not really listening to their conversation. His night had been as bad as he had suspected and when he had awoken at dawn with a strangled cry, wrapped in a tangle of sweat soaked sheets, he had given up all hope of sleep. Instead, he had gone down to the stable and groomed Roger until his coat shone, all the time talking to the horse, who listened with patience and offered no judgement to the man who confessed his darkest fears. For a moment Athos felt his skin prickle, a chill on his neck despite the warmth of his scarf. He looked around to see if there was any sign of danger. Nothing, but still the unease remained and unsettled the rider as he caught up with the two Musketeers, who were oblivious to his concern. The cause of Athos' discomfort stood beneath the bridge and watched the riders head off away from the city into the countryside beyond. So he had recovered. She had been kept informed, but now she had seen it for herself. The Cardinal had told her to ensure the invitation would never arrive at its destination. She had carried out his wishes, and without having to get her own hands dirty. She had not known he would be involved, but this is what she had dreamed of, what she had wished to be delivered upon him for the cruel way he had treated her. Then why did she feel as though his death would leave her forever maimed; only the remaining half of something that had once been whole?

At mid-morning Treville's presence had been _requested_ at the Palace by the King. Treville had resigned himself to more discussions about the party arrangements, hoping the King had not added any further requests. Athos' suggestion of Gaston's involvement nagged away at him, provoking a permanent, ever-present headache.

The King entered the room, followed by a small entourage. The Cardinal was at his side, his black robes floating around him like the wings of a carrion bird. He wasted no time on greetings before sharply addressing the Musketeer Captain.

'Please tell me it isn't true, Captain. Tell me you have not sent a murdering felon to escort my brother to Paris.' The King looked at Treville, silently pleading with the man to deny the allegations. Treville sighed and hung his head, how could he have known? He had only made the decision himself the day before. He glared at the Cardinal, noting the man's smug expression before he answered the King.

'I have sent Athos with Aramis and Porthos, two of my best men. His skill with a sword is unparalleled, he will guard the Duke well.'

'Are you telling me that a lowly criminal is better than my elite guard?' demanded Louis, taking exception to Treville's insinuation.

'No Sire, but my men are stretched thin escorting your guests to the Palace, and we thought it best to keep the Duke's arrival as low key as possible. Sending a civilian lent Aramis and Porthos' mission less importance, and so attracted less notice.' He was thinking on his feet, although the reasons he had given the King were not altogether untrue. He failed to add that the main reason was to prevent an honourable young man, and potentially great Musketeer, from falling once more into ruin. No, that was an agenda only known to himself.

The Cardinal could not contain himself any longer. 'You thought it a good idea to send a man the King had recently ordered to be flogged to guard his brother? Treville, even for you that is naïve.' Treville clenched his fists and imagined what it would be like to strike the Cardinal's smug face.

'The man the King recently pardoned, and to whom he showed mercy,' reiterated Treville. Richelieu waved his hands in irritation.

'The King is merciful to dogs every day, and those same dogs are barking and snapping at his heels again by morning.' The King shifted uneasily in his seat.

'Cardinal, you are making the man sound quite dangerous.' Louis looked uncomfortable.

'That is the point, your Majesty. We do not know anything at all about this man.'

'Is this true Treville? Do you know who this man is?' Treville had reached the end of his rope. There was no way he could offer them the suspicions he had as to Athos' origin, and to lie would only cause further trouble. Defeated, he looked at the King, his head high and replied:

'No, Your Majesty.' The King looked horrified and Richelieu's face registered the victory he had won.

'Treville, I have always relied upon you as a man of judgement and common sense, but this…' words failed him, and he looked to the Cardinal for assistance.

'Perhaps it is time that the Musketeers had a new Captain, Sire. Someone who can lead them in a new direction.' Stung, Treville retorted:

'And just what direction do you suggest? One where they are answerable to you and not the King?' Upset at the very suggestion, the King raised his hand.

'Come, come, Cardinal. It has not reached such a point yet. Treville, do I have your word that this Athos is trustworthy?'

'You do, Your Majesty. He has given me his word he will give his life for France, and to ensure the safety of you and the Queen.' Treville knew this was the one truth he could give the King, for he believed in it without question. Something in his demeanour must have mollified Louis, for he nodded.

'I am satisfied for now, Captain, but I must warn you that if any harm befalls my brother, I _will_ hold you fully responsible.' Treville bowed low. The Cardinal should have looked angry, but Treville felt his blood run cold as he saw the man grinning like a sleek cat. What was he up to? Because he was definitely up to something…


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

As Treville sat up late drinking a glass of good brandy, his mind wandered over the events of the past few days. So much had changed in so short a time. The party organisation and then Athos; Treville had a feeling his addition to the Garrison would be both a boon and a challenge. He had been worried, for a moment, that the man would turn down his offer, and that would be that. If he had chosen to walk away from the Garrison, there would have been nothing further he could have done. And, if his suspicions were correct, Athos would have returned to a life of obscurity and self-loathing.

He thought back to the night before, and the memories that had slipped into his consciousness unbidden. Noise from the Garrison had long since died down, and only the occasional whinny from the stables, or the hoot of an owl, broke the stillness outside. The fire had been low in the grate, and already the windows were frosted over, the room beginning to chill. Still he had not been able to sleep.

As he rose to throw more wood upon the fire, he heard a cruel voice in his head. _Do not be so stupid. Use your head not your foolish heart._ Overlaid, he could hear the dignified tones of Athos. _Head over heart_ … _head over heart_ … It was his mantra, the rule he schooled the young cadets to live by. Broken pieces of a puzzle, fragments of a picture stored deep in Treville's mind. _A summer's day long ago. Standing guard whilst the King held court. The sun was shining … children laughing, playing outside in the glorious gardens. Ladies fanning themselves beneath the trees in the dappled shade… Do not be so stupid_ … there it was again, the superior, arrogant voice, somehow familiar. _Head over heart_. Then suddenly he remembered.

He was back in the past. _A young soldier on guard duty at the palace, long before the formation of the Musketeers – the days of the old King. Louis had been a child. Dignitaries had gathered for his birthday – his tenth_ , _if Treville's memory served him correctly. Other children had been invited by his mother, Marie d'Medici_ , _and they were in and out of the palace and grounds keeping the soldiers on their toes. One small child wasn't interested in the other children's games and he had pestered the soldiers, albeit politely, with questions of battles and military strategy. He had sat with Treville for a while and proudly produced a selection of small soldiers, and the boy informed him of his planned skirmishes and tactics_ , _with a seriousness that went far beyond his years._

 _Later in the day_ , _he had seen the boy fencing with another much older child. It had been a competition intended to keep the boys out of mischief. The quiet boy had shown a great deal of skill, but the match had been declared a draw when the older one, the spoilt son of a Duke, had called a hit unfair, claiming the sun was in his eyes. The small boy had not contended the issue, he had simply bowed and accepted the decision. Feeling sorry for him, a young cadet had offered to spar with the boy instead._

It came flooding back so clearly now _. The afternoon sun had flashed upon their steel as the soldier found he had to pay far more attention to the sword play than he had been expecting. Once again_ , _Treville had been impressed, not only with the boy's ability with a blade but with the gravity in which he listened and took the advice he was given. If he made a mistake, he did not make it twice. If his opponent bested him, he withstood it like a little gentleman_ , _and made no complaint. He must have been tiring, for the day had been long and hot. Attempting to perform a move too advanced for his years, he had tripped and ended up on_ _the stone-flagged floor with a bloodied nose._

 _At that moment_ , _the boy's father had happened upon the scene. Treville could still remember the look of anger upon his face. Tall and dark, he strode toward his son with an expression as cold as ice. Fearing the man was about to reprimand the young cadet Treville had stepped forward. The nobleman had simply ignored him as he addressed his son. Treville had watched in horror for_ , _instead of sympathising with the boy and tending to his injury, the man berated his him, degrading him in front of all the visiting nobility and their children. The boy had stood up straight_ , _white-faced and mortified_ , _as his father had pulled his strategy apart and belittled him to all present._

Treville tried hard to picture the boy's features, but they were lost in the years that had passed in between. What he did remember, however, was the impression the boy had left behind - a keen mind, intelligent but remote. Lonely. Though the faces were blurred by time, the man's words were not. _'How could you have been so stupid? …Never let your head be ruled by your foolish heart. …Head over heart. If you do not_ , _you will be undone, and you will deserve your end. Just as you did today…You are a disgrace!'_

 _The boy had stood with his chin up_ , _looking into his father's disappointed face, just the tell-tale wobble of his bottom lip giving away his emotions. He took his punishment like a man_ , _bowing and apologising to his father. But just before he left, he turned to the young cadet, who stood appalled at the child's predicament, bowed and thanked him. With tears in his eyes the boy had been led away by his father, in disgrace. Head over heart… the Comte de la Fère._

Treville was not sure if the boy had been the first-born son, or if the Comte still lived. He knew it was an old and wealthy family, with rank and influence within the nobility. If Athos _was_ that small child, then it might explain his discomfort with affection and physical contact. But what could possibly have happened to bring him to the point at which they had found him? Treville considered what he knew about Athos. The pieces certainly fit, or was he simply trying to find a solution to a complicated puzzle? Treville vowed he would find out, but for now he would tell no one.

The three men had begun their mission soon after dawn and had been riding for several hours. The wind was biting, and they had conversed little, their heads tucked inside their cloaks and scarves, to prevent their faces freezing. They were riding through a wood of sorts, though the trees were sparse and broken by large scattered clearings covered in scrub. It was a bleak part of the countryside, and the bare and blackened trees added a sinister backdrop to their already uncomfortable journey.

Porthos rode up alongside Athos, who had said less than both of the other two Musketeers. In fact, Porthos realised he had not spoken at all.

'I don't know why the King had to hold the Queen's party in December,' Porthos grumbled, shifting his scarf higher over his face. Athos did not make any move to acknowledge his presence but simply replied:

'Because that is when the Queen has her birthday.' Porthos scowled at the man for a moment, before his eyes crinkled in amusement.

'Yeah s'pose so. But I've heard the English King has two, one when the weather is better. Seems like a good idea to me.'

'I don't see the point,' said Aramis, shaking his head. 'It's England, the weather is never better.' Porthos nodded, and even Athos snorted in agreement.

'We should rest the horses,' stated Athos, and the two Musketeers readily agreed. 'I think I can hear water just through those trees, and if I'm right, this spot is probably as good as any other to stop and refresh the horses. If we are lucky the trees will provide some modicum of shelter.'

'And we can boil some water for somethin' warm to drink before my blood freezes in my veins,' grinned Porthos, looking much happier.

Without further discussion, the three men split up to undertake their various tasks. Athos led the horses toward the sound of water, where he found a small stream, and Aramis collected kindling, whilst Porthos found enough stones to surround a pit for the fire. Soon they were sat around the crackling flames, a warm glow slowly making its way into their frozen marrow. Aramis and Porthos bantered between themselves across the dancing flames, whilst Athos sat with his back to a tree and quietly listened. The three of them shared a meal of bread and cheese, though Athos only picked at his.

'If you aren't goin' to finish that…' stated Porthos, his inference clear. Athos smiled and handed his untouched loaf to the big man. 'You don't eat enough to keep a bird alive. I don't know how you keep goin',' Porthos tutted. Aramis made a note to ensure that Athos ate a decent meal at wherever they spent the night - he didn't want him fainting with hunger. Having eaten, the Musketeers cleared away and mounted up, not wanting to delay any longer than they needed to. The sky was overcast and threatened snow.

Resuming their journey, only the muffled beat of the horses' hooves sounded as they cantered through the damp undergrowth. It seemed the very forest was frozen in silence. As the afternoon wore on and the light began to fade, they reached a small village. Like most villages in this part of France, many of the inhabitants made their living by farming small patches of land. The street was quiet apart from a few travellers, the odd dog and couple of early drunks. Most people, those who were not working the land, were tucked up indoors. The village inn looked to be sturdy and in good repair, the sign hanging over the door swinging slightly as the wind began to rise. Athos looked up to the sky as the stable boy took the reins of their horses, leading them away to a warm bed of hay. A blizzard would be a disaster; they would not make Orleans and the Châteauxif there was a heavy fall of snow. As they entered the tavern, it was obvious that several fellow travellers had come to the same decision - the room was full. Spotting the new arrivals, the landlord - a large genial man with an obvious limp - came over to welcome them. He noted the men's Pauldrons and smiled broadly.

'Musketeers! Welcome gentleman, it has been a while since we had such privileged company.' The men smiled, it was not always the case that the regiment was given such a warm welcome. 'As you can see, I'm afraid the weather has bought many to our door in search of shelter. If it is a room you seek I can only offer you the one. It only has two beds but I can move in an extra cot, if you don't mind sharin'?'

'Not at all,' grinned Aramis, aware of the look on Athos' face. He knew the idea made the man uncomfortable, but it was better than the alternative. Porthos looked at the gloom outside and shivered, there were already small flakes of snow hurtling passed the windows in the gusting winds.

'Well I'm just glad we're in 'ere and not out there,' Porthos declared, Athos grunted as they followed Aramis to a table nearer to the fire. Nobody had taken particular interest in their arrival, that they had noticed. Athos had scanned the dimly-lit room, but most of the occupants were deep in conversation and wore the garb of farmers or travelling merchants, probably on their way to or from Paris. Relaxing a little, he joined the others, as they ordered food and drink.

When the fare arrived, it was plain to see that Porthos was delighted. The pie looked excellent, and he rubbed his stomach in delight.

'Now that's what I _call_ a pie,' he smiled, as he tucked in with enthusiasm. They ate in silence. Aramis was glad to see Athos partaking of the meal, even if he did lack the zeal of the big Musketeer. When they had finished, they poured more wine and sat back and considered the company. Porthos spied a group of men about to begin a game of cards, his eyes lit up and he made to rise. Athos reached out and placed his hand upon Porthos' arm. With a look of reproach, he spoke in a low voice.

'Be nice! We do not need the attention.' Porthos placed his hand over his heart and looked wounded, before grinning and walking away. Athos rolled his eyes and gave Aramis the hint of a smile.

'Are you finished eating, mon ami?' the Musketeer asked, eying Athos' half-full plate.

'Not necessarily,' he countered, raising his brow. He moved the food around upon the dish but didn't actually raise it to his lips, Aramis noted. However, the same could not be said for the wine. He was concerned that, without distraction, Athos would continue to drink, and to withdraw into whatever dark place he went to, when left to his own devices.

'What are our thoughts about Gaston and his plans?' asked Aramis, in a bid to rouse Athos from his inertia. Athos looked up, his face taking on a thoughtful expression before he responded.

'I do not know. Treville did not find any proof that the King has been in contact with Gaston.' Still considering the question, he continued:

'Nevertheless, I cannot believe it was Louis's idea.' He looked at Aramis, awaiting his opinion.

'The more I think about it, the more your notion makes a lot of sense. Louis was outraged when Gaston's plot was revealed. In fact, I was surprised to find he had returned to France.' Athos smirked.

'And how did the King know that he had?'

Aramis looked shocked. 'Mon dieu, of course. Come to think of it neither he nor the Cardinal looked surprised when his presence at the château was mentioned. But then I would expect the Cardinal to be aware of the Duke's location.'

'He would know where to find the devil, my friend,' nodded Athos, with a hint of malice in his voice.

As the men sat in the warm tavern bar-room, the storm continued to rage outside. Though the winds were gale force, luckily the snow was light, and if it did not worsen would not delay their journey the next morning.

In a similar tavern not far away, the story was different. The dank and grim looking establishment was well off the normal thoroughfare. Its inhabitants looked both drunk and dangerous. Any unfortunate stranger who stopped for respite from the storm would be lucky to survive to see the morning without getting his throat slit. No, he would be better taking his chances outside. The woman walked into the room, her long woollen cloak hiding her face. There was a lull in conversation as she searched the smoky room. One drunk came up behind her and tried to grab her around her waist, leering as he pulled at her cape. With one flick of her wrist, she picked up a bottle from the nearby table and, without any sign of remorse, hit the man cleanly over the head. His stunned expression hardly registered before he hit the filthy floor with a sickening thud. For a second there was silence, and her heart hammered, awaiting a response. Finally, a roar of laughter erupted, and the man's friends came and dragged him away, propping him up in a corner to sleep it off. The rest eyed her with suspicion, and something akin to fear, as she headed for a table in the corner.

'You know how to make an entrance,' the man seated at the table hissed. The woman pulled back her hood and narrowed her green eyes, as she snapped:

'If you had wanted a more ladylike approach, then you should have chosen a more ladylike establishment.' The man curled his lip.

'You attract too much attention.' The woman looked at him with a condescending stare.

'I do what needs to be done. Let us hope the same can be said of you.' Her voice dripped with contempt as she refused the glass he offered her.

'My men are reliable. We will see to it that your letter is not delivered. What about those delivering it?' he asked, a sneer upon his face.

'Kill them.' She replied without hesitation.

'All of them?' he queried, wanting to make it quite clear what she was asking. She swallowed and wished she had accepted the offer of wine. Pausing just for a moment she replied:

'All of them.' Tossing a purse full of coin at the man, she pulled up her hood and made her way to the door. As she stepped out into the snow, she was glad the icy flakes were melting on the warmth of her cheeks, for it gave her an excuse to ignore the salty tears that slid from her eyes.


	11. Chapter 11

Sorry this is such a short Chapter, but it has been a busy weekend. I need to remember that during the week I'm supposed to spend my time doing what I am actually getting paid for….

Once again, I thank you for your reviews, they mean a lot. Continue to enjoy.

Chapter 11

The evening had passed pleasantly; Porthos had been engrossed with his cards, whilst Aramis and Athos had played chess - where Aramis had managed to find the board, Athos decided not to ask. Though the smitten serving girl may have had something to do with it. Aramis was not surprised to find Athos a demon at chess - he was a natural strategist - and, when he drawled the word, checkmate, for the third time in a row, Aramis threw up his hands in a gesture of surrender.

'I withdraw whilst I still have a modicum of dignity,' he smiled. 'Perhaps it is just as well, for we will need to make an early start in the morning.' As they were packing away the board, Aramis noticed the way in which Athos stiffened at the idea of their impending sleeping arrangements. He made no comment, but considered what would be the best way to make him feel more comfortable. Having secured a bottle of wine, they wished their hosts goodnight, and the three men made their way upstairs.

The serving girl lighted their way with a candle, taking every opportunity to make eye contact with the charming Musketeer. '…'ere you go gentleman, it might be a bit on the cosy side but at least it will be warm,' she giggled, giving Aramis a side-long glance. 'But if it's too snug, I've got plenty of space, and my room's just at the end of the hall.' She smiled meaningfully at the Musketeer this time, before heading back down to the bar, swaying her hips as she went. Aramis turned to Athos with a look of sufferance. He shrugged his elegant shoulders.

'Ah, mon ami, it is a cross I must bear. God has made me a source of succour to the female of the species.' With a quirk of his brow, Athos gave a droll retort:

'How unfortunate, though, that he obviously forgot to make you humble whilst you endure it!' He slapped the Musketeer on the shoulders and Porthos laughed, happy to see Athos more relaxed. Everything changed, however, when Athos eyed the sleeping arrangements. It was indeed cosy. The room was small, there were two beds set against the walls opposite each other and a cot had been placed in between. A privacy screen was in the corner, with a dresser holding a bowl and pitcher on the other wall. The one advantage was the roaring fire, which gave the room its light, and luckily a great deal of heat.

Porthos dropped onto one of the beds, pulling off his boots and swinging up his long legs. He lay back and exhaled.

'It's bin a long day.' He closed his eyes and leant against the pillows. Athos seemed to have frozen to the spot, a look of abject horror upon his features. He knew the two men had kept a close watch upon him day and night throughout his recovery, and he dreaded to consider what words or information had passed his lips during those long and painful hours. But this was different. Should his nights be full of the usual torment and angst, he did not want to burden them, or impart details he would rather keep buried; especially now he did not have a fever to account for them. Aramis was fully aware of the man's turmoil and took the situation in hand.

'You, mon ami, may take the other bed. I will be quite comfortable upon the cot.' He smiled and began to place his belongings upon the low mattress between the beds. Athos was torn. He should not allow the man to put Athos' comfort before his own. He was not, after all, a real Musketeer, simply an interesting appendage with a personal agenda. On the other hand… He eyed the other bed, and the convenient wall beside it - he could turn his face to that, shutting out everything else. Making a decision, he smiled and nodded at Aramis, indicating his consent.

'Thank you, you are most kind.' Aramis was surprised that the man had acquiesced, he had anticipated a fight. Still, he thought it best to explain his reasoning, in case Athos added Aramis' discomfort to his overactive guilty conscience.

Indicating the relaxed Porthos, he explained, 'Porthos always gets the bed, for obvious reasons!' He smirked as he gesticulated the man's length. 'And you, my friend, are in a great deal of discomfort, are you not?' Athos looked surprised for a second, before shutting down all sign of emotion. He finally replied:

'I am fine.' His look did not encourage argument, but Aramis forged on in any case.

'No, you are not.' He held up his hand as Athos made to speak. 'It is vital you understand that, as a Musketeer, you have a duty to make your colleagues aware of any injury, or suffering, that might affect your ability to do your duty. We need to know you are fit, and that you would have our backs in a fight. Do you understand?'

Athos looked stricken, and Aramis felt he might have over-played his hand. 'You have been gravely injured not so long ago, and today's ride was long and uncomfortable. It is perfectly understandable that you are feeling sore.' Athos sighed and lowered his eyes, seeming to think about it for a moment.

'You are right, of course, and I apologise.' Aramis had noticed that when Athos was contrite, his voice changed. He now spoke in a smooth and velvety manner that, under other circumstances, would have made a woman swoon. He continued, 'My back is sore and my shoulder throbs. It is solely the result of spending hours upon a horse. It will diminish as the days progress.' Still feeling guilty, Aramis produced the bottle of wine he had appropriated from the landlord before they had retired.

'One last nightcap perhaps, and then I will fix you a pain potion - it will help you to sleep.' If there was any suggestion of anything else being inferred by the remark, Athos decided to ignore it, simply taking it at face value. He raised one brow and thanked Aramis by giving a brief nod. Secretly, he was grateful, perhaps the medication would indeed allow him to pass the night and remain invisible.

They each partook of one last glass before they prepared for bed. Athos took one final look out of the frosty window. The weather was being particularly temperamental. There was a thick layer of snow upon the ground, but it was powdery, and the strong winds that still blew were sweeping it up in its arms and piling it against trees and buildings, kindly keeping the roads and lanes comparatively free.

Athos lay in his bed, his back toward the two Musketeers, a manoeuvre that had not gone unnoticed. He had curled up and lay underneath the blankets, but sleep would not come. He was glad. Perhaps he could nap as they continued their journey the next day. Roger was accustomed to his master's idiosyncrasies and was adept at keeping an even gait so the man would not fall.

The wind still moaned around the wooden building, the rafters creaking as they strained to withstand the onslaught. Windows rattled and sighed as the freezing draughts made their way into the darkened room, creating a chill as the heat was overcome. The fire still burnt, and the shadows flitted and weaved upon the walls of the room. He could hear the rhythmic sound of Aramis' breathing and the gentle snores from Porthos, as both men slept soundly.

Eventually the noise from the storm lulled Athos to sleep and for a while he rested peacefully. Gradually, he began to grow restless. His eyes moved behind his tired lids, and he lifted his arm as if to ward off some unseen enemy.

 _The smell, sharp metallic_ - _the tang made_ _his stomach recoil… red everywhere… on the floor… on his brother… on his wife… and now it was on him!_ He made to brush the taint from his hands, rubbing and wringing them against each other as though his life depended upon it _._ _'_ _No… noooo…_ _'_ _he moaned._ _'_ _Anne, what have you done…?_ _W_ _hy are you crying… Thomas… Oh God_ , _what have you done?'_

The last words were wrenched from his very being, and the anguished plea woke both Musketeers from their sleep. Aramis was at his side in a second. He tried to roll Athos away from the wall, so he could see his face. As he touched him Athos stiffened and swung his fist towards the Musketeers face. it was only Aramis' lightning reactions that saved him from becoming the target of a strong right hook.

'Athos, Athos, mon ami. It is Aramis, you are safe. We are here. Athos, come on, wake up!'

Whatever nightmare had Athos in its grip, it was not going to give up its hold so easily. He writhed on the bed, fighting off all Aramis' attempts to calm him. His face was covered in a layer of sweat and his dark hair clung to his head and face.

 _She was there in front of him again. The blood was gone now. Now she was clothed in white… innocent and pure, but she was not innocent… she had murdered in cold blood…_ for love… She had killed for love… killed love… ' _Why didn't you kill me?'_

His anguished plea echoed around the room, and the two men who were trying to calm his agony looked at each other in distress. What tortured his dreams? What events could have broken his spirit and made him cry out from such suffering? Aramis tried once more to reach inside, and free the man's soul from it's heart-breaking dream.

'Athos, come my friend, it is time to wake up now. You need to come back to us. It is over.' Athos seemed to calm for a moment. Then suddenly, and without warning, he sat up straight and grabbed Aramis around the throat. The two men were totally shocked, and it was a second before either of them reacted. Aramis tried to force Athos' hands apart, but in the grip of his demons, he had incredible strength. Porthos took hold of his shoulders and tried to pull him off his friend.

Without realising, he drove his fingers into the spot where the infected wound had healed, at the same time shouting Athos' name. The raised voice and sudden pain made Athos relax his grip and turn toward the source of the noise. Porthos wasted no time and, as Athos looked at him, eyes fixed and unfocussed, the big man gave him a sharp punch to the jaw, knocking him out cold.

Aramis collapsed back upon the bed and rubbed at the place where Athos' hands had been. The two of them were breathless and horrified, both at Athos' reaction, and at the action Porthos had been forced to take.

'What was that all about?' Porthos asked, wiping his hand over his face. 'I didn't want to hit him, but…' He looked at Aramis, his face full of anguish.

'I know, my friend.' Aramis' voice sounded gruff, as he continued to massage his throat. They both looked at the figure now lying quietly upon the bed, as he shivered in his sleep. His covers had slipped onto the floor and his sweat-soaked shirt chilled his body, as by now the temperature in the room had fallen. 'If we change his shirt, he will know what happened, and I think he will be mortified, probably withdraw into himself even more. It is best we cover him up and say nothing.'

'His jaw is going to hurt!' Porthos stated, looking repentant. Aramis smiled and shrugged his shoulders.

'Perhaps we will be lucky, and he will not notice.' The look they exchanged suggested they both found that scenario very unlikely. Aramis wiped the sweat from the man's brow and made him comfortable, before covering him up - whilst Porthos built up the fire. Then, their tasks completed, both of them fell into bed, to get what little sleep they could in the little time left before morning.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Despite the drama during the night, Aramis and Porthos were sound asleep when Athos opened his bleary eyes. For a moment, he wasn't sure exactly where he was. His mind was confused; so many times had he awoken recently to circumstances less than beneficial to his well-being. He felt panic well up inside him, his nose almost pressed against the wall of the room – it seemed that even in his sleep he had sought isolation.

Finally, the sounds of the two sleeping Musketeers broke through his bewilderment, but he was afraid to turn to face the room. He couldn't help thinking he had forgotten something important, but he didn't know what it was. Something was hiding in the foggy recesses of his brain, hovering just out of reach.

When he did move, his limbs felt sore and stiff. The long ride yesterday had taken its toll, a fact he had realised last evening. Even with Aramis' chastising, he had still kept the depth of his physical discomfort to himself. As he slowly sat upright, he was surprised how much the wound in his chest hurt this morning. It had dulled to the level of a nasty bruise, yet now he could feel the slightest throb emanating from the spot. He gently swung his legs over the edge of the bed. The room was now freezing, and he wasted no time pulling on the rest of his clothing and his boots, before creeping silently from the room.

The tavern was empty, with just the vaguest sounds coming from the area where Athos presumed the kitchen to be. Letting himself out, he was shocked by the cold wind that hit him in the face. Luckily, the wind had remained strong throughout the storm, and what snow had fallen was now heaped against walls and buildings, with open spaces simply covered in light coating where it had frozen. Dawn had broken, and the sky was a myriad of lilacs and golds. The sun shone pale and bright, hurting his tired eyes; he pulled his hat down firmly over them, and his cloak tightly around his body.

As he passed the well, he noticed the bucket resting upon the edge, the water iced over. Without hesitating, he plunged his hand through the hard surface, feeling both the heat and coldness that grazed his skin. Putting both hands into the ice-cold water, he splashed his face, gasping as the cold took his breath away. It may not have been the best way to wake up in the morning, but it worked for him. However, it wasn't only the cold that surprised him. Feeling gingerly around his jaw, he winced slightly as he found a tender spot. He couldn't help a growing unease that it was connected to the something he couldn't remember.

The soft whinnying from the stables grabbed his attention. It wouldn't hurt to check that the horses had received as warm a welcome as they had. Reaching the stalls where the horses had spent the night, it was clear that they had indeed been made comfortable and fed well.

Assured that all was as it should be, he was about to turn and leave when he heard a noise. Athos stopped and listened. Very faint, the slight sound of scratching upon the wood of the stable wall. He was naturally suspicious but, due to the importance of their current mission, he decided he would err on the side of caution. Chances were, it was simply undergrowth disturbed by the wind. Still, it was best to be prepared. He unsheathed his dagger and retraced his steps to the doorway, alert to the slightest noise. Unfortunately, Aramis chose that moment to appear, hailing him with a grin.

'So here you are, mon ami. We were somewhat concerned.' Athos didn't know whether to be cross that he had arrived so inopportunely or angry that they should fuss over him like a child.

'I did not wish to wake you,' was his only reply, his face giving nothing away. Ignoring Aramis, he walked around the stable building, choosing his footing with care so as to make no sound. The ground was frozen solid, and to step upon a twig would have made a sound akin to a musket shot in the quiet stable yard.

He peered around the corner, dagger ready, to find a dark thicket encroaching almost to the wall, with just a narrow patch of frosted earth leaving a gap large enough for a man to pass. The ice-covered earth gave very little away, but the broken branch that swung awkwardly in the wind showed signs of recent damage. Something, or someone, had been on this spot recently and judging by the height of the break, he would not be at all surprised to find it was a some _one_ , not a some _thing_!

With one last glance into the dense trees, he sheathed his weapon and returned to the yard. Work of the day was beginning, and the sun was already on its upward arc, despite the faint trace of orange still clinging to the horizon. Aramis was standing in the yard where Athos had left him, though gone was the concerned man from earlier, and in his place stood a soldier ready to react at a moment's notice. He removed his hand from his musket when he saw that Athos no longer held his own weapon.

'What is wrong?' All charm was now put aside.

'Someone was behind the stables,' declared Athos without hesitation. Aramis frowned. It would not be long before the Musketeer would accept Athos' assessment of a situation without question, but that time had not yet come, and they were still feeling their way around each other's strengths and weaknesses.

'Are you sure?' Athos had not expected the man to take his word for it without question; what kind of soldier would that make him? And after all, Aramis had only known him for a little under two weeks. 'Could it not have been wildlife?' queried the Musketeer.

'If they have exceptionally tall wildlife in these parts, it is a possibility,' quipped Athos with the slightest hint of a smile. He looked at Aramis, who smiled back and simply nodded.

'We should move,' Athos recommended, aware that he was in fact under Aramis' orders and only along at Treville's behest. The Musketeer nodded and turned back to the inn. Athos gave instruction for the horses to be readied and strode after Aramis to find Porthos, though neither man was in doubt where he would be.

Indeed, Porthos was sat at a table in front of the fire tucking into a large plate of eggs, ham and warm fresh bread. He looked up with a huge grin, and then he registered the looks upon the others' faces. 'Wot's up?' He looked sadly at the food upon his plate and then back up at the two men. 'We have to leave, don't we?' They nodded and smiled as the big man rolled his eyes sadly.

'We may have attracted some unwanted attention, mon ami,' said Aramis, casting a regretful glance over the table. He noted that Athos had barely registered that the food was there at all.

The landlord's wife appeared at that moment, looking upset. 'Did I hear you say you have to leave? Surely not before you've filled your bellies? It's a cold morning out there and a long way to the next inn, in any direction.' This news was not particularly welcome, but it was not as if they had much choice.

'I am afraid, madam, we must leave, though we are saddened to miss this wonderful feast you have provided. It would have been most delightful,' proclaimed Aramis with his best wounded expression.

'And you likened _me_ to a puppy?' Athos deadpanned. He rolled his eyes in amusement noting Porthos take one last look at the laden table. As they gathered up their belongings, Aramis gave Porthos a quick explanation of events out by the stable. Both Musketeers were experienced enough to know that, even if Athos was wrong, it would be stupid not to take precautions.

The landlady returned with a bag for each of the men and, much to their delight, explained: 'There is bread, cheese and some meat in there, along with a bottle of wine. At least I'll know you won't go hungry, even if you do freeze.' She shook her head as if to indicate that she thought the three men were slightly mad and, after paying her well and giving their thanks, they took their leave. If Athos had raised a brow at the mention of wine, Aramis pretended not to notice.

Once the horses had been made ready, the three wasted no time in mounting up and cantering out of the small village. It was already busy, as people began their day clearing snow from doorways in an attempt to get back to normal. Whilst there was work to do, they could not afford to spend a day beside the fire – no matter what the weather – unless they wanted to starve. Though life in the countryside was cleaner and more fragrant than in the city, it had its own dangers; it was a hard and frugal existence.

The men cantered for a couple of miles before the road forked. It was apparent that their current path would eventually take them into a dense forest, appearing to cover many miles. The alternative, a grim looking upland, rose sharply, leading to a high rocky plateau. The trees upon the ridge in the distance stood squat, gnarled and black, as if stunted by the severe conditions they were forced to endure. Somehow, neither looked particularly welcoming, despite the pale sunshine. That, too, bore a hollow promise, failing to warm anything it touched.

Aramis spoke: 'If my memory serves me right, this road leads through the forest for a couple of hours, if not more. At one point it narrows through a ravine with high walls.' He looked about him, as Porthos noted: 'Great place for an ambush.'

Aramis nodded in agreement. 'This one,' he said, indicating the other path, 'takes you to the top of that plateau. There is an almost sheer drop on the one side to the forest floor below and on the other, a drop that is steep but not _quite_ as sheer.' He had made it sound as though neither of the choices were particularly pleasant. 'The top of the plateau, though, is flat – a little narrow, but you can see impending danger from any direction before it reaches you.'

The three men stood in silence, each considering the options before them. It was Athos who spoke first, and Aramis noted with interest how self-assured the man became when he was talking of strategy or tactics. Indeed, this was a very different Athos from the one they had struggled to save from himself in the depths of the night.

'I appreciate that the layout of the forest provides the ideal spot to attempt an ambush. However, the plateau has its own dangers.' All three were looking at the high ridge as if they were expecting to see brigands ride over the crown at any moment.

Athos continued, 'The ridge is high. After last night it will be frozen at best, but most likely covered in snow. Aramis tells us it is narrow, with drops on either side that would, at best, cause injury. I would not like to ride a horse at a gallop in those conditions, nor would I wish to carry out prolonged swordplay… not if there were a more suitable alternative. At least in the forest there is a modicum of cover, and the ground is more likely to be firmer.'

Once again, the two Musketeers stared at Athos in wonder. The way in which he could be so eloquent when it came to such things, and yet at the same time reluctant to string two words together when is came to anything remotely personal, never ceased to amaze them. In return, he noted the expressions upon the men's faces and explained: 'It is simple strategy.' Under different circumstances his puzzled countenance would have been amusing, but there was a common sense behind it which in the end might save their lives. So instead they simply looked at each other and in unison declared: 'Forest!'

Athos gave no sign of victory. At the end of the day, he agreed with the logic and so accepted their decision without further thought. If only, thought Aramis, the man had as much confidence in himself as he did in his strategical planning.

By late morning, the temperature had a least risen above freezing, and the ground beneath the horses' feet was softer and more comfortable on their mounts. A slip upon such frozen ridges could mean disaster to a horse's leg, and none of them wanted to encourage such an event. A thaw would definitely mean they could travel faster if it continued.

After a while, Aramis pulled up his horse and suggested they stop to enjoy a very late breakfast. The way Porthos had been eyeing him for the last hour, he was not sure if he was considering hitting him, or eating him, but he had definitely looked the happiest amongst them at the suggestion. Athos continued to be on the alert, and though none of them had relaxed completely, he looked edgy and primed to do battle at the first sign of need.

'We cannot risk lighting a fire, but the food from the tavern will suffice cold, and perhaps a swig of wine will give us some added warmth,' said Aramis. He sneaked a look at Athos to see how he would respond, but he found the man's total disregard somewhat discomfiting.

This time it was Aramis, with his sharp eyesight, who gave the alert. He was sitting eating his bread and cheese, facing the wall of the ridge through the trees, when he suddenly stiffened. Athos instantly reached for a weapon, but Aramis just placed his finger to his lips and pointed toward the ridge.

They all turned and peered through the trees to the rising escarpment. For a moment they could see nothing, then there was a glimpse of movement, or more the blocking of the light through the trees. Athos shifted his position to get a clearer look and pulled out his spyglass. He passed it to Porthos, who passed it in turn to the marksman.

Athos spoke. 'Twelve, maybe more if they are riding two or more abreast. Heading the way we have just come.'

'Traders?' suggested Aramis hopefully.

'Not the way they're armed,' replied Porthos, looking serious. Athos looked thoughtful but said nothing. He looked up and noted the position of the sun. They had been riding for a couple of hours and they had not yet reached the ravine in the centre of the forest which Aramis had told them about. That meant they had at least another three hours before they were out of the trees – maybe more.

They waited until they could not see the party of men any longer, before quietly mounting their horses and riding away. The forest seemed unnaturally silent, as if the creatures themselves were preparing for the onslaught of an unknown assailant. Athos constantly peered through the trees to the plateau, before riding up alongside Aramis.

'Tell me, if the weather had not been so cold, would you have taken the plateau route?' he enquired without judgement – he was simply curious. Aramis did not hesitate in his reply.

'My friend, despite the weather, I would have taken that route, until you pointed out its weakness.' Athos merely nodded, as though the response was as he expected.

'So, anyone expecting to come across us would take that road.' He spoke as if he was not expecting a reply, just stating a fact. Once more he withdrew into himself, looking again at the sun. Suddenly he pulled Roger to a halt. The two startled Musketeers looked around anxiously.

'What is it?' Porthos demanded. Athos now looked serious – they were beginning to know that look, and they weren't sure they liked it.

'What does the terrain look like after the ravine, does the forest open out?' asked Athos.

'No,' replied Porthos, 'the wall of the ridge carries on almost to the end of the forest, and on the other side is a wide river.'

Athos nodded. 'So once we reach the ravine there are only two ways to approach us, either from behind...'

'…or from the front,' finished Porthos. 'But they were goin' in the other direction. They couldn't get in front of us, unless we were delayed or stopped.' Again, looking at the sun, Athos once more began talking, as if to himself.

'By now, they will have reached the tavern and heard of the Musketeers that stayed there last night. They will know what time we left and, as they did not pass us upon the ridge, will know we have travelled through the forest.'

'But they would have to ride hard to reach us and we would hear them coming,' maintained Aramis.

Athos smirked, 'They do not know we have seen them, and that gives us the advantage. What if they could mount an attack simultaneously from in front and behind? If they sent a party to delay us long enough, it would give the others time to take the other road and cut us off. Unless, we could clear the forest before they had time.' He looked in askance as he awaited their reaction. The two Musketeers glanced at each other before returning their attention to Athos.

'Then what are we waitin' for?' growled Porthos, before kicking his horse into a gallop. They rode hard and were coming to the end of the ravine, when they heard the added thunder – the result of several more horses' hooves. Wheeling round, they dismounted and sent their mounts off into the trees. The Musketeers' horses were used to the sound of battle, and, unless the fight came too close for comfort, would happily graze until they were needed. Athos knew Roger would never leave him and, if he strayed for his own safety, would come as soon as he was called.

As the first horse thundered toward them, Aramis aimed his musket and bought the rider down. Bringing up his second, he winged the man behind. Two down, five left – much better odds! Porthos and Athos fired together, wounding one and taking down another. One each – excellent! All three drew their swords and prepared to fight. Sound from the clashing steel echoed through the stillness, making the men's ears ring. Their adversaries knew how to fight, this was not going to be some easy skirmish against desperate bandits; these were trained soldiers.

Things began to go bad when one of the men pulled out a dagger and threw it at the marksman. It hit him hard in the upper arm and stuck into the tree behind, essentially pinning Aramis to the trunk. Grinning, he made to run the shocked Musketeer through when, with Athos' _main gauche_ protruding from his neck, he hit the grass before he knew what had happened.

Porthos took a hurried glance at his friend, pale and bleeding, still impaled between the dagger and the tree, but he was too busy fighting his own opponent to do anything about it. Athos slowly manipulated his adversary so that he was alongside the big Musketeer.

'Go!' shouted Athos, nodding toward Aramis. Porthos hesitated before Athos yelled again. 'Go, I will deal with them.' With a single nod he let Athos take on both soldiers and ran to Aramis' side.

'I am fine, mon ami. Help Athos.' As they both looked toward the three men, despite Aramis' predicament they couldn't help but smile. Athos was bearing down upon the two men like an avenging angel. They parried and lunged wide, as he pushed them further back away from the two Musketeers and, though they would have loved to watch it to its inevitable conclusion, they could not waste the opportunity Athos had afforded them. Porthos moved to pull the blade from Aramis' arm.

'No, don't!' Aramis yelled weakly. 'Can you remove it from the tree and free me? It will be better for the wound if the blade can be cleaned before you pull it through.' He looked up at Porthos, who grimaced in understanding. He took out his own blade and chipped away at the tree, attempting to free the knife. As it moved inside his arm Aramis fixed his eyes on Athos to try and take his mind off the pain.

There was only one man left standing, and Aramis almost felt sorry for him. His moves were wild and he already had blood flowing from several wounds. He made one desperate effort to attack, but Athos' blade circled his, whipping the sword high into the air. As the man glanced to see where his weapon had gone, Athos lunged and thrust his blade deep into the man's chest. He let out a sucking noise as he sank to his knees. Athos removed his sword and, as the man fell, wiped it clean upon his clothes. They would spare no remorse for these men. Death in a fair fight would be one more death that would not haunt his dreams.

Turning to help the others, Athos was alerted by a yell from Porthos, making him spin around, sword at the ready. One of the men, caught by a bullet at the beginning of the attack, had rallied and was bearing down on Athos with his dagger. There was a sudden crack and a small hole appeared in the surprised man's forehead. Breathing hard, Athos turned and nodded his silent thanks, as Aramis, who had snatched Porthos' unfired weapon from his belt, grinned his thanks in return.

Now free from the tree, Aramis instructed Athos to fetch water. They did not know how much time they had, but using the water from the small stream, and the wine in their bags they cleaned the knife as best they could. Porthos pulled it from his arm with one sharp tug, Aramis groaning as the blade came free.

As blood began to run unchecked from the wound, Porthos padded clean rags against it and smiled. 'You were lucky,' he said.

Aramis looked dubious. 'Really? Pray do tell.'

Porthos smiled and patted him on the shoulder, making him wince. 'A couple of stitches front and back, and you will be fine. It didn't hit anything important…'

'Except my arm,' Aramis retorted, as his friend removed the wadding.

'It was your left arm, so you will be fine.' Athos, realising the man was not in any immediate danger, and unable to provide any medical assistance, spoke up.

'Can he ride?' Porthos nodded as Aramis cut in, 'Yes, I can,'

'Good,' drawled the swordsman, 'I fear it may be a little premature to enjoy our victory just yet.'

'Oh, I don't know,' grinned Porthos, 'I think each small victory deserves a small celebration.' And with that he took a swig out of the bottle of wine he was still holding, before passing it to each of the other men in turn.

Aramis put his hands upon his comrade's shoulders, and said: 'So, what are we waiting for?' Grinning, they rounded up their horses and headed off toward the edge of the forest at a gallop.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

Richelieu paced up and down the floor of his apartments. It had been a trying morning; he had been forced to listen to the King give ridiculously lavish instruction to the baker regarding the design of the cake for his wife's birthday party. The Queen had deliberately been kept away from the discussions, for Louis wished it to be a surprise.

As he poured himself a drink, the Cardinal heard the sound of booted feet approaching. The day had since ceased to be, and now the shadows had lengthened in the dimly lit room. The Cardinal, garbed only in black, hovered in the shadows like a spectre. The footsteps came closer, then stopped, as the Red Guards knocked upon the door.

'Come!' shouted Richelieu, leaning upon the window sill. He gazed at the slumbering landscape, at the flames that wavered across the city, lighting the occasional tavern or public building. At this time of night, it looked almost charming, rather than the cesspool of intrigue and depravity it really was.

The man who entered was young, but he exuded a quality that some would have described as feral, his expression making him look older than his years. His voice dripped sarcasm, and he kept his dislike poorly hidden as he addressed the Cardinal. 'Your Excellency, it is a pleasure.'

'Really? Somehow, I doubt that. If you are going to be a spy, then you really are going to have to do much better than that.' Richelieu turned from the window, giving a smile that radiated malice. He smirked as the younger man responded.

'I never anticipated such an event, but I will endeavour to serve France as you wish.' He watched the Cardinal move closer. He did not glide with the grace of a truly pious servant of God. Instead, he meandered and slid – more like a snake – as he negotiated his way around the room, bearing down upon his prey.

Is everything in hand?' Richelieu asked, small talk now over. The young man straightened and accepted the goblet of wine the Cardinal offered him, before furnishing his response.

'The royal party have, of course, accepted, and my guards are ready to provide an escort. I have not told them who they are escorting, in case some drunken idiot decides to brag to a Musketeer, and it reaches the ears of Treville. I trust that would be unfortunate?' His smug expression was arrogant and haughty, like his manner.

'Unfortunate indeed. If Treville finds out about… our guests, he may begin to ask awkward questions.' The younger man kept his tone neutral as he spoke; it would not do to show too much interest in the First Minister's plans.

'Do you have a plan, or shall I just use my ingenuity?' he said. The Cardinal sneered, looking the man up and down.

'Oh, I think I had better have a plan, don't you, Rochefort?'

'Oi, Athos.' The big Musketeer nodded, indicating Aramis, who was beginning to sway dangerously in his saddle. Athos cantered up beside the injured man.

'We should stop.' he said. Aramis began to speak, but Athos cut him off. 'Musketeer rules?' Aramis gave a weak smile.

The medic in him evaluated his condition and gave an honest assessment. 'You have listened well, mon ami. You are right. Stitches would be a good idea right now, the excessive riding has increased the bleeding.' Athos just nodded and began to canter toward the tree line.

'This will serve our purpose well. We will stop and see to your injury before you bleed to death.' His voice was stern and made it clear that argument was useless. Neither Musketeer thought to question his judgement, but simply turned their mounts and complied. They made their way just inside the trees, the road still visible, but unseen by other passing riders. Porthos helped Aramis down from his horse and made him comfortable, while Athos wandered off back toward the main track.

'He's broodin' again.' Porthos nodded to where Athos had disappeared into the trees. Aramis turned to follow his friend's gaze and shook his head.

'No, I think he is worried.' Aramis sighed, deep in thought. He was seated propped against a tree and took a deep breath whilst Porthos stripped off his coat and shirt.

'Sorry Mis,' Porthos apologised, as the Musketeer began to shiver. He cleaned the wound once more and passed Aramis his medical pack. Whilst Porthos attended to the injury, Athos waited in the trees, surveying the ridge for any sign of the attackers. Satisfied there was no sign of the bandits approaching, he returned to the others and squatted down bedside the injured man.

He looked at the needle the medic was holding in his hands and raised a brow, the question plain upon his face. Aramis looked at Athos' hands and then at Porthos'. Smiling at Athos he spoke apologetically, 'I'm sorry, mon ami, but I think I would prefer your long, soft fingers to Porthos' meaty paws.' Porthos looked at his hands, as though seeing them for the first time, before looking up at Aramis with mock indignation.

'I'm hurt Mis.'

'Not as hurt as I would be, my friend, if I let you near me with that needle.' He managed to retain an air of gravity as he turned to look at Athos once more. At that point, Porthos let out a roar of laughter, until a raised eyebrow from Athos made the big Musketeer cover his mouth to silence his mirth. However, Athos could not help but smile at the man's amusement - until he registered just what Aramis was asking of him. His demeanour suddenly became grave once more, and he spoke in a measured tone.

'I have never stitched skin before.' He looked at Aramis, his face full of concern.

'It is not difficult, and the wound is small, it will not need many. Just try to make them neat – a small scar the ladies love, but I would hate to be disfigured.' Athos rolled his eyes and took the needle. Before he began, he turned to Porthos and held out his spyglass.

'Take this and watch the road. Do not turn into the sun as the reflection off the glass will give us away.' Porthos took the glass without comment and headed back to the road. Athos smiled kindly at Aramis and said, 'Then let us get this over with.'

Though in reality it took only a few minutes to sew the two small holes in the Musketeer's arm, for Athos it felt like a lifetime, and despite the icy wind, the sweat ran down his neck. When he was finished, he covered the wounds with salve, as the medic instructed, and helped him back into his shirt and coat.

'I am sorry, you need to be warm, but we cannot risk a fire.' Aramis was sleepy, and the agonising pain from the stitches, along with the blood loss, had sapped his remaining strength. He surveyed the surrounding area pensively. Just then, they heard Porthos signal. Reluctantly, Athos left Aramis, but not before covering the sleepy Musketeer with a blanket. He then hurried to the Musketeer watching the road.

Riding as though the devil himself were after them, came the men they had been waiting for. As they rode past, Athos grunted, 'Twelve – we cannot hope to defend ourselves against such odds. Even with Aramis whole we would not survive such an encounter.' Porthos nodded as they watched the men ride out of sight. 'We need to get Aramis to shelter, somewhere warm.' Athos stated, anxiety evident in his voice.

Porthos smiled. 'Now I might just have an idea about that.' He pointed in the direction from which the men had ridden. 'When I was looking through the glass, I noticed a smallholding not far away. There was smoke rising, so there must be folks livin' there.' Athos looked thoughtful. Gazing up at the darkening sky, he nodded slowly. They were hunted men, and if he had a choice, they would not impose themselves upon innocents. The two men returned to Aramis to tell him what they had seen.

'Twelve?' Aramis looked somewhat downcast. 'We cannot fend them off, and at this time of night we cannot outrun them.' He was accurate in his assessment. The ground was still slippery in places, whilst frozen ridges could prove fatal for the horses if they continued to ride in the dark. Should they lose a horse, they would indeed be in trouble.

'We need to get out of the cold.' Porthos interrupted. 'Aramis, you are shivering badly, and Athos, you don't look much better.' Athos gave him a blank stare. He was tired, having slept badly the night before and, as if the memory had reminded him, he stroked his jaw and frowned. He might have thought to ask the men what could possibly have caused the injury, but his thoughts were elsewhere. Directing his words to Aramis he asked:

'Are there caves in that ridge, do you know?'

'Caves?' the Musketeer queried, his eyelids beginning to droop.

'Yes, large holes cut into rock,' Athos deadpanned. Aramis managed a faint smile.

'There is a good chance. It is not unusual for local communities to keep livestock in caves during the winter months, and if Porthos says there is a farm nearby, then it is worth looking.'

'Can you ride?' Athos asked the injured man. Aramis gave him a look that said _try and stop me_ , and Athos did not disagree. Now the wound was closed and bandaged it should begin to knit, providing it was not put under further duress. They mounted once more and walked the horses toward the ridge. They moved slowly to lessen the sound of the thudding hooves in the stillness. Time was moving on and the afternoon was growing darker; the sun had long given up and the sky was once more clouded over. Athos was silent, and with Aramis quieter than usual, they made a morose group as they kept up their alert surveillance of the surrounding forest.

'Over there,' Porthos pointed. At the place which he indicated was a narrow path, winding upward and onto a small ridge, a little way up the rockface. And there, sure enough, almost covered by thick brush, was a large, dark, gaping hole. The three men stopped and considered the position of the cave. They did not want to spend the night somewhere they may well become trapped if they were discovered. As far as they could tell, the path continued on past the entrance until it re-joined the forest, a little way in the distance. At least there was more than one exit. With the light almost gone, they realised they had very little choice. They shared a silent agreement that needed no verbal acknowledgment, and the three men rode toward the path.

Athos suddenly turned. 'Stay here, it is possible it is not empty.' Without waiting for confirmation, he urged Roger into a canter and rode up the rocky track, toward the mouth of the cave. The grotto was well-concealed and did not look as though it was in use. It was pitch black, and the echo from Athos' boots sounded loud in the cavernous space. There was a musty smell in the air, probably from the nocturnal inhabitants that made their home in the murky recesses. Reassured there was nobody hiding inside, Athos returned to the entrance and signalled for the others to approach.

He found a stout branch upon the floor and used his flint to set light to the end. The sudden flare of light sent shadows leaping around the walls and ceiling, as if the very cavern had suddenly come alive. A couple of old boxes and clumps of wool adhered to the rough walls, suggesting sheep may have been kept here at one time or another – though not any longer. By the time Porthos and Aramis arrived, Athos had gathered some kindling and was beginning to blow on the sparks to set a fire.

For a man of his size and reputation, Porthos made a good cook. He took what supplies they had left and handed out the food to the others. Athos made an effort to eat; even he was beginning to feel the need for sustenance after the events of the day. They were each lost in their own thoughts as Porthos stood to go and gather more wood for the fire. Aramis and Athos remained staring into the swaying flames. When Athos spoke, the medic was startled.

'Did I hurt you?' he asked, his voice husky with emotion. For a moment Aramis looked puzzled. When realisation struck, he tried to look away and make light of the moment. He thought for a second, he might even attempt to look innocent, but he knew it would be futile. Instead he faced Athos, his own face mirroring the swordsman's sorrow.

'How did you know?' He could not keep the genuine curiosity from his voice, and it caused Athos the slightest twitch of the lips.

'My jaw. It hurts.' He gave Aramis a sidelong look. 'Porthos, if I am not mistaken.' Aramis sat open-mouthed, words failed him, and that was rare. Athos came to his rescue, 'I was dreaming and Porthos… you needed his assistance. Am I right?' Aramis did not wish to add to Athos' hidden burdens, but he knew the man deserved the truth.

'You were dreaming, it was not your fault. You felt threatened and grabbed my throat. You are strong, mon ami, it was the only way, and we hoped it may enable you to get some rest.' Athos gave Aramis a sad smile before he answered wryly:

'Remind me never to tell you when I am feeling tired!' Aramis chuckled, and Athos clapped a hand to his shoulder. 'I am sorry, I should not burden you with my weakness.' The pang of guilt and shame hovered over him like a shroud as Aramis quickly reprimanded the man.

'You are not – nor have you ever been – a burden, my friend, and you are definitely not weak. Whatever demons possess you, we are here to listen, should you feel the need.' Athos nodded his thanks but was unable to respond. He did not know how he had managed to find these men. He would not give God credit for his good fortune – he had renounced that path long ago – but he was grateful, for right now the two Musketeers felt like the only thing holding him together.

Porthos, who had watched the two men quietly conversing, suddenly spoke, his voice a deep rumble in the empty cavern. 'I'll take the first watch.' Athos frowned and glared at the man across the glowing fire. Making a show of rubbing his jaw, he addressed the big Musketeer, 'It seems I slept well last night, so I will take first watch. Porthos, you will relieve me at three. Aramis you need to rest.' Porthos would have argued, but he had not missed the subtle reference, and he was well aware to what Athos was alluding. Sheepishly, he nodded his consent and looked toward Aramis. When he noted his friend smiling, his gaze returned to Athos, this time noting the twinkle of mischief in his eyes.

Porthos heated more water from their flasks over the fire. All three of them had felt better with a little heat in their limbs. Aramis was now asleep, having finally given in to exhaustion. Athos sat at the entrance of the cave, but there was nothing for him to see in the forest below. The moon was high in the sky and scudded swiftly across the cosmos, flitting behind the clouds, every now and then plunging the landscape back into darkness; an endless void filled with menace.

Athos entered the cave and sat by the fire, gratefully accepting the warm tea Porthos offered him. He gave a smile of thanks before withdrawing inside his head once more. It was the Musketeer who broke the silence.

'What are ya thinkin'?' said Porthos. He had been watching the brooding Athos, and knew his brain was assessing the various strategies available to them. He had begun to realise that this man had the rare skill of taking a given situation and coming up with a plan. He had yet to realise that sometimes those plans bore no consideration for the stubborn man's own wellbeing – but that was about to change. Athos looked at Porthos as though he were considering the man's question.

Looking back toward the cave entrance, his voice took on the haughty, confident tone that indicated he meant business. 'Assuming I have understood Aramis' route, if we ride at first light and rest as little as possible, we will not make the chateau until early evening. We have no idea where the others have spent the night – for all we know they may be close at hand.' Porthos nodded his agreement and added:

'They cannot set off before it gets light, the road would be just as dangerous for them. We could wait on the ridge and pick 'em off. If we reduce the odds, we might be able to fight 'em off.' He looked pleased with the suggestion. He was a man that would definitely prefer to stand and fight rather than run. Athos nodded.

'It is a possibility, but the invitation would be at risk, and after all that is our mission. We do not know just how many there are.' Porthos frowned.

'Why do I think you have a plan, and why do I think I'm not goin' to like it?' he said. Athos glared and gave the Musketeer one of his most arrogant stares.

'If we could delay them for a while, the invitation would have a head start. A couple of hours and it would be enough to increase the odds in favour of it arriving at its destination.' He looked Porthos in the eye, daring him to question his suggestion. Porthos was having none of it.

'And who or what is the delay?' As if he couldn't guess.

'I am,' Athos drawled. Porthos shook his head frantically and was about to shout when he remembered the sleeping Musketeer. He gestured toward the cave entrance and Athos rolled his eyes, but he followed.

'What do you mean you are? It already sounds stupid and I don't even know what you 'ave in mind.' He stood with both hands on his hips, and Athos had to admit to himself that an angry Porthos was a most intimidating sight. Luckily for him, he was not intimidated in the slightest.

'It need only be for a couple of hours if I can draw them away long enough to hold them up. I will re-join you as soon as I can. It will give you and Aramis time to extend your lead.' Porthos shook his head vehemently.

'No, don't you even think about it.' Indicating the sleeping Musketeer, he added: 'He will kill you if you even suggest such a thing. He's only just got you better.' Athos had the grace to look sheepish, but simply snorted and returned to the entrance. He sat down and pulled his cape firmly around his shoulders, ready for his watch, his stubborn stance indicating the conversation was over.

The night had passed quietly, with just the occasional bat leaving and entering the cave, swooping to investigate its new guests. As Athos glimpsed the first indication of approaching dawn, he slipped from the cave. He had not awoken Porthos for his watch, figuring the man was going to need his sleep; he had no idea how long he had kept the two Musketeers from their own slumbers the night before. In any case, he needed Porthos to be asleep now. Signalling Roger to be silent, he led the horse, not the way they had come, but in the other direction. This headed away from the cave, and so lessened the chance he would be heard. When he reached the forest floor he stood and listened. Nothing. His leaving had passed unnoticed. Mounting Roger, he headed into the trees to wait.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

Porthos was the first to stir; he had slept long and hard. Neither men had heard Athos leave – a sign of just how exhausted the two Musketeers were. He took notice of the dawn sky and realised Athos had not woken him for his watch. Scowling, he stood and stretched his cramped limbs. After the life he had led, sleeping rough never bothered him, but someone needed to tell that to his body. He strode toward the entrance, intending to give the swordsman a piece of his mind. He swept past the sleeping medic without too much thought for delicacy, it was time Aramis awoke anyway. Porthos blinked slightly, for the daylight seemed blinding after the gloom of the cave. He called out quietly, not wishing to make their position known to anyone nearby. When there was no answer, his instincts told him something wasn't right.

'Aramis, wake up. It's Athos…' called a concerned Porthos over his shoulder. Though his voice wasn't loud, the tone was enough to stir Aramis, who had already heard Porthos leaving his bed, and it only took the mention of the third man's name for him to become wide awake.

'What is wrong?' Porthos was already walking away, making for the spot where they had tethered their horses. Only two. It didn't take the man more than a second to realise what had happened.

'I'm goin' to wring his bloody neck!' growled the big man, grabbing his curls with both hands. 'Then, when I'm done, he is yours to kill again. Argh!' he cried, as he kicked out at the cliff face in rage. Now very worried, Aramis tried to calm the Musketeer long enough for him to explain what was going on.

'Mon ami, you are scaring me. What has he done?' Porthos looked at his friend, and Aramis could see that the anger had now been replaced with genuine concern. He raised his brows and indicated he was still waiting, though not patiently, for an explanation. Porthos sighed and stalked back to the cave, Aramis hard upon his shoulder.

'Last night we was considering our options. I was for picking them off and standing our ground. He said it was risky. Said the invitation needed to be delivered.' Aramis nodded imagining the conversation between the man of action and the man of strategy.

'Go on,' Aramis urged.

'He was concerned that there was no way we could outrun them or outfight them. He wanted to delay them...' Aramis looked puzzled.

'How would that help?'

'Let me put it another way, _he_ wanted to delay them, whilst _we_ carried on with the invitation.' Aramis suddenly understood why Porthos was so angry.

'Merde! What did you say?' Aramis was now pacing up and down like a tiger.

'Wot do ya think? I said no. I said you would kill him...' He didn't mention how he had tried to deter Athos, by reminding him how Aramis would react to his idea, especially after the medic's efforts to heal the trauma resulting from his last stubborn idea. The fact that he had ignored him would only make Aramis feel worse. He realised the marksman was speaking once more.

'But he went anyway. Stubborn fool, he will get himself killed. Is that what this is about? Is it? Has this been his goal all along? Because if it has, then I wish he had done it back in Paris.' At this, the fight seemed to go out of the marksman, and he leant against the wall in a bid to compose himself.

'Don't get sayin' things like that. He wouldn't.' But though Porthos said the words, they didn't carry much conviction. The fact that he was even considering the idea made him angry. 'We need to get after him before he finds them, or they find him.' He began to gather up their belongings and looked at Aramis. The marksman had not moved but was looking at Porthos, his expression wretched.

'That might not be the best course of action, mon ami.' He wiped his hands over his face and waited for the explosion.

'What d'ya mean?' Just as Aramis had anticipated, Porthos stalked toward him, face like thunder. 'We just let him hand himself over and do nothing?' Not for the first time Aramis felt the weight of responsibility dragging him down to hell. They were Musketeers and they had a mission – to deliver the letter from the King. Athos was not a Musketeer, and despite what opinions they might be forming of the man, the King was unlikely to agree. To mount a rescue that might already be too late, putting the mission in danger, was an action that would not sit well with either his Majesty or Treville. How was he to explain that to an irate Porthos and make him understand?

'We do not know how long ago he might have left. Did you see him at all during the night? What time did he relieve you?' Aramis registered the look upon Porthos' face and sighed. 'He took the watch all night, didn't he?' It was Porthos' turn to pace up and down, frustrated that he had allowed himself to sleep through. It was obvious that Athos had planned this before Porthos had even got into his bed.

'So, it is done. We have no idea how far he has gone. No idea where he might be, or if he has been captured. What exactly was his plan?' Aramis asked the question in the hope that maybe there was some merit to be found, and they could relax a little.

'He was going to lead them a dance long enough for us to get ahead. Then he would leave them behind and catch us up.' Aramis was not relieved, it didn't sound like Athos. The plan was risky and full of holes, but so like the man who had conjured it up. So, like _him_ to put himself at risk so they could get away, so the mission would be accomplished. Such behaviour might even warrant the King's gratitude, but he couldn't enjoy his commission if he were dead.

Aramis was torn in two. If they dashed after Athos – who may already be dead – they would most certainly end up in a confrontation, a confrontation they had no hope of coming out of on the winning side. If they carried out his wishes, then they might, just might, complete their mission. Though he did not want to admit it, they really had no choice. If Athos had sacrificed himself, then it was up to them to them to see it had been worthwhile. However, Porthos would not see it like that.

'We have a duty. We need to deliver the letter.' He glared at Porthos, who was about to interrupt – it was not up to Athos' standard, but it had the desired effect. 'Athos may already be dead. If we go after him, we will only be running headlong into trouble, and a fight which we cannot win. We need to give him the opportunity to carry out his plan.' Porthos was shaking his head.

'No way! No way I'm leavin' him again!' He stood his ground like an angry bull.

'We have _no_ choice,' replied Aramis. 'We will ride hard for an hour, and if he has not joined us by then…' He left the rest of the sentence hanging in the air and prayed he would not have to complete it. Porthos looked around for something to punch, and when his search proved futile, he let out a feral cry instead.

'I cannot believe we are doin' this again.' He pointed his finger at Aramis. 'If he's not back in one hour, I'm going to get him, and you can deliver the damn invitation!' With that, he grabbed his satchels and left. Aramis lifted his eyes to heaven and stroked his rosary.

'Please God, let this be the right decision. Please don't let this be the end for Athos. I don't believe this is his destiny. It is not what you have planned for him. You would not have bought us together to split us asunder like this. Keep him safe.' The last words he whispered, his eyes closed as he brought the beads to his lips in silent prayer.

Athos was beginning to wonder what was taking the two men so long. He feared the assassins would be upon them before he had time to put his plan into action. He had seen the two Musketeers holding their debate upon the path, and could tell from Porthos' behaviour how that conversation was going. He had watched as Porthos took out his anger upon the rock face, and the guilt he felt pierced his conscience as sharply as any knife. He knew they would feel betrayed and angry at his deception. He prayed that their sense of duty would prevail, and they would make the mission their priority.

Just then, he saw Porthos stride from the cave entrance and pack up his horse. Aramis followed, and the two men mounted and headed back toward the forest road. As they charged past where he stood amongst the shadows, he thought how glad he was that they had not let him down.

With a deep breath, he waited until they had ridden well out of sight before he led Roger from the trees. He deliberately turned his back to the direction he expected the enemy to ride from, though there was no way of being sure. He doubted they could have already ridden past them, as he had been waiting since just before dawn. Slowly, man and horse walked in plain sight, following in the path of the two angry Musketeers.

The fact was, leading the bandits astray had never been part of his plan. As Aramis had spotted, it was too full of holes. There was only one way he could ensure the unknown enemy would be delayed as long as possible, and that was to keep them busy with something else – namely him.

He had no idea how long he would have to wait, but he hoped it would not be too long. The morning was cold and grey once more. Plodding along on the frozen ground, without the comfort of a warm horse beneath him, his blood was slowly turning to ice.

Athos felt the vibration through the ground before he heard the beat of the galloping hooves. His spine stiffened, and every sense became heightened. He whispered something to Roger and rubbed the horse's leg. As if by magic the animal began to limp most convincingly. _They_ had made a game of Athos teaching Roger new tricks, _she_ had found it so amusing, particularly this one.

He led the horse toward the tree line – no point making himself too obvious. They had to believe he was not expecting them. It went against every instinct Athos possessed to walk onward, oblivious to the danger bearing down upon him. If he turned too early, he would not achieve his objective. He was not as good a shot as Aramis, not many people were. However, he was not bad, and both muskets were primed and ready. If he could claim a victim with each, then he stood a fair chance of reducing their numbers. As the horses drew closer, he began to count down, ' five… four… three… two…' He yelled to Roger and the horse took off like lightning.

Muskets raised, he swung around, timing it just right. Pulling both triggers, he aimed at the two riders out in front. Red blossomed on the chest of the first man, the shot sending him crashing beneath the hooves of the horses galloping behind. The other discharge was not so deadly, but it winged another rider in the shoulder and he, too, fell from his mount, the loose horse delaying the riders that followed. This was perfect. The nearest man jumped down and hurtled towards Athos, sword drawn. The Swordsman wasted no time with elegant swordplay, instead he slashed at his opponent's arm and brought his fist up, instantly breaking the man's nose, before plunging his sword deep into the villain's chest. Athos had no time to hesitate, his _main gauche_ went flying through the air, almost before his sword had cleared the dead man's body. He heard a gasp of pain as it found its mark. He was about to take on another bandit, when he heard a sharp voice cry out: 'Enough! This ends now!'

Athos stilled, his breathing hard. He heard the cocking of several muskets and he knew he had done as much as he could. By his count, two were dead and two more injured – he hoped it would be enough. If the others caught up with Aramis and Porthos before they could safely reach the chateau, then at least the odds had been reduced.

He let his weapons drop to the floor. The man who had issued the order swung down from his horse and stood in front of Athos. The swordsman held his breath – he was getting rather experienced at this and held himself ready in anticipation. When the backhander came, it still left his senses reeling, and he tasted the sharp tang of blood in his mouth.

'Where are the other Musketeers?' the man asked, adopting a bored persona, though his voice was edged with steel.

'I'm not a Musketeer,' Athos hissed, spitting upon the frozen grass. The fresh blood stood out in stark contrast to the silver frost.

'I don't care what you are, Musketeer or not, you will die anyway. The only question now is how. After what you just did, I will let my men deal with you, they may as well seek a little pleasure with their justice. Athos began to hope he had not overplayed his hand, he did not want to die too quickly, that would not do at all. He had to keep them busy. Taking them by surprise, he brought up his elbow and hit the man standing at his right shoulder underneath the jaw, hearing the snap as his teeth jarred together. From the sound of his scream, it was possible his tongue may have got in the way!

He lashed out with his leg, catching the man on his left just below the knee. Though the blow was not hard enough to break his leg, it felled the man like a stone, and gave Athos the opportunity to lunge at another. Should luck choose to look the other way, he knew he was taking a great risk. If they chose to shoot him, then his sacrifice would have served no purpose – and if Aramis had any say with God, he would probably make sure the swordsman spent a very long time in hell. For once, it seemed God was on Athos' side. Or perhaps he wasn't, perhaps he just wanted the man to suffer just a little longer. Whatever the reason, he hardly felt the pistol butt as it struck the back of his head, and the world went black.

He had no idea how long he had been out, but when he came around, he was tied by the wrists with both hands above his head, the rope holding them slung over a stout beam. The floor was dirty and littered with old hay. He could make out little else, apart from a wooden chair, just out of reach. Sacks hung over the windows, and he was unable to tell whether it was still daylight outside. Hearing voices and footsteps, he closed his eyes. It was a useful tactic, who knew what the men might let slip if they thought he was still unconscious. Athos could not have predicted their next move, so used was he to violence against his person. With his eyes closed, he had no idea what was about to happen. When the ice-cold water hit his body he bucked in shock, merely hissing as he wrenched his already sore shoulders and ground the rope deeper into his wrists.

'Guess that worked then, Pierre,' laughed one of the men as their captive's eyes shot open. If only they had known just how often Athos chose to use that tactic upon himself, they might have found the irony even more amusing. As it was, their laughter quickly faded, and they stood glowering in silence, appraising the man they had at their disposal.

The man who had stood watching the spectacle spoke up. 'My name is Berger. The man you shot was my cousin.' He raised his fist and hit Athos in the stomach. He couldn't do anything to alleviate the pain as his arms were already stretched to their limit, but he would not give them any satisfaction. Raising his head, he smirked, daring the man to strike him again. Berger spoke, this time with ill-disguised hatred. 'And the one who bit off his tongue – that was Pierre's brother.' He gestured to the man hovering beside him, who now stepped forward to take his turn. The right hook caught Athos firmly on the chin, snapping his head back painfully. Still he managed an arrogant grin before replying.

'How nice that you keep it in the family.' Raging at the man's arrogant riposte, both men set about punching Athos, who silently prayed his ribs would withstand this new attack. He finally let out a low moan, as a particularly vicious kick to his legs left him dangling once more from his already bloodied wrists. He struggled to hold on to his senses as the breath left his body. Intent on keeping them busy, he managed to snarl: 'Perhaps you have some more relatives I could dispatch?' Athos had tensed, preparing for a new onslaught when his goading was interrupted – the door swung open. The two men took a step back now, looking a little unsure of themselves.

'Bisset,' Pierre greeted the man reluctantly.

Bisset carried himself with authority. Athos could tell even in the dim light that he was not some casual bandit. He conducted himself like a soldier, dressed like a soldier. Athos considered whether he may have to re-think his strategy. When he was no more than a foot in front of Athos, the man spoke. Once again, he spoke in a tone suggesting the whole experience was tedious to him, but Athos suspected that a sharp temper was hidden by the act.

'So, I see you have been kept entertained. Perhaps now you will tell me what I want to know. Where are the other two?' Athos knew if he had any chance of escaping, he needed to remain in one piece, even if that piece was slightly battered – getting beaten to a pulp would be detrimental. Instead, he decided to give the man a little something to keep him interested. Though his chest ached at the effort he managed to speak.

'They made for the nearest village, one of them was injured.'

The man gave a faint smile before he reacted. 'Good. I found the bodies of six of my men. I presume that was the work of you and your friends. I am gratified at least one of you was harmed.' He thought for a moment before he put his next question. 'Why did you not go with them?' Athos was prepared for this.

'My horse was lame.' He added no further explanation and hoped it would be enough. One of the two men, Berger, who had been silently watching the interrogation butted in.

'He's tellin' the truth. I noticed the horse was limpin'.' He looked smug, as if he had said something clever.

'It is a pity you didn't notice the two muskets he was holding, then your cousin might not be lying in the barn waiting to be buried.' Berger narrowed his eyes and glared at Athos once more. 'I thought he seemed to be rather anxious to leave, in fact he fair galloped away.' He looked at the two men as if he had made some entertaining remark. They grinned hoping it was the correct reaction.

'I have told you before. I am no Musketeer, my horse is not used to violence, he was alarmed.'

Bisset pretended to be contrite. 'We are most terribly sorry. We have no argument with your horse.' This time Boucher and Pierre laughed without prompting, and their leader preened ever so slightly. So, no genius then, thought Athos, vain and arrogant maybe. He could work with that. He made eye contact with Bisset and gave him one of his haughtiest stares, though even quirking his brow hurt, and he could feel blood running into his eye as he tried to blink it away.

'Why don't you give me my sword, and we can finish this.' Athos spat the words though his pain. Bisset glanced at Athos' sword, which they had carelessly left by the door. He walked over to the weapon and picked it up. He weighed the blade in his hand and swung it through the air. Athos tensed, the man daring to wield his sword made his blood begin to boil, but he could not afford to lose control. He ensured his face remained blank, and he waited.

'A fine blade, too good for a Musketeer. Oh, but you are no Musketeer, are you? So that begs the question, who are you? And why are you travelling to Orleans with two Musketeers?' Athos smirked and managed to reply:

'You are very well-informed Monsieur... I am surprised you need to ask. Perhaps the man… who hired you… decided you did not need to know.' The idea he may have been deliberately misled angered Bisset – Athos could see it in the man's eyes. He raised the sword once more and placed the tip of the blade to Athos' throat. He let the point travel slowly down his chest leaving behind the lightest trace of red where the white flesh had broken. Athos held his breath – he could feel the blade cutting through his skin, and hoped it was not inflicting any serious injury. Bisset suddenly bought the sword to Athos' throat once more, before he growled through clenched teeth:

'I am only going to ask you once more! Who are you?


	15. Chapter 15

Once again I must thank you for your reviews. I love to read them and I thank **Greenlips24** for showing me how to look at the Stats – they are fascinating. I haven't tried the Chat yet but I will. Please keep them up, I like to know what worked and what didn't .xx

Richelieu sat at his desk deep in thought, lips pursed and fingers together as if in prayer – though God would not wish to hear the thoughts currently occupying the First Minister's head. When the King had announced his intention to hold a party for the Queen, the Cardinal's first concern was the expense. He knew the King would want the biggest, brightest and most expensive of everything.

France was not a wealthy nation, and the coffers could do without a lavish extravaganza of royal proportion. When word spread, there would be even more grumbling and whining from the downtrodden and mutinous tax-payers. He seriously wondered how much longer the populace would tolerate such a burden, for such arrogant and egocentric reasons. Even the expense of war was more amenable to the people of France than the King's self-indulgent lifestyle.

However, he knew the King of old and, once Louis had made a decision, getting him to change his mind was almost impossible. The best Richelieu could hope to achieve was damage limitation. With a great deal of diplomacy, he may be able to simplify some of the more elaborate requirements, assuming he could distract Louis with a more interesting, and preferably cheaper, suggestion. Not relishing the prospect, he sighed, and reminded himself it was all for France.

Still, the upcoming event had promised some interesting scenarios, not the least being the reason for his recent guest. He had managed to persuade the King to invite a small delegation from Spain – a birthday surprise for the Queen. No one particularly powerful or threatening, just the Queen's two female cousins and their entourages. The King had been a little dubious to begin with, never keen to welcome the Spanish onto French soil. Whilst Louis was still contemplating the suggestion, he had proposed the ludicrous idea of inviting his brother, and all worries pertaining to Spain were forgotten.

The only weak link in his plan was Rochefort. Richelieu was many things, but a fool was not one of them. He was only too aware what people thought of him: Treville, with his high and mighty moral code, backed up by his pretty-boy soldiers; ministers and councillors, too afraid of his power and position to stand up to him, backbiting and plotting in corridors instead. He didn't care what any of them thought, he did what he did for France; after all, nobody ever said politics had to be fair – or even legal.

Rochefort, on the other hand, was every bit as sly and calculating as he was. The Cardinal had no doubt that, if it forwarded his own agenda, the man would slit his own mother's throat. Rochefort wanted power, for power's sake, and Richelieu would have to keep a close eye on the man; though if his plan came to fruition, he might prove to be a loose cannon. Still, he thought to himself, cannons sometimes backfired and blew themselves to smithereens!

Aramis and Porthos had ridden hard for almost an hour. The forest seemed to crowd in on them, the constant thrum of the horses' hooves emphasising the increasing distance between them and Athos. The morning was still young, for they had begun their journey shortly after dawn.

Neither man had spoken. Usually, Aramis kept up a constant babble, delivered in his usual affable manner, and Porthos found this new silence oppressive. However, he could think of nothing to say, and the growing silence had become almost tangible. Though each of them had checked repeatedly, hoping to see Athos galloping up behind them, they had been disappointed. Eventually, despite the lack of verbal communication, the Musketeers had gradually slowed their pace, as though waiting for the other to prompt some sort of decision. Porthos was becoming visibly agitated, and Aramis knew the time was fast approaching when that _decision_ would have to be made – and it scared him to death.

Aramis had done nothing but consider their options ever since he had convinced Porthos to leave Athos behind; for no matter how they dressed it up, that was exactly what they had done – again. He was furious with the man for placing them in such a situation once more. Last time, as little more than strangers it had been difficult. Now? Well, he hoped they were friends, but with Athos it was difficult to know. Burdened by memories that haunted his sleep, he kept himself remote, pushing away every physical touch, and deflecting every emotional connection. Whatever, or whoever had hurt him, had hurt him deeply.

Aramis recalled the words of the farrier: what did he have planned when he arrived in Paris? Athos did not appear to have any agenda, no family, no connections. His proclivity for jumping into every dangerous situation he encountered saddened the marksman. He hoped he was wrong when he surmised Athos' desire for self-destruction, but his latest dilemma only made it seem more likely.

His guilt now battling with his frustration, Aramis pulled up his horse. He sat for a moment, head bent, deliberating his next move. Porthos halted his mount and watched his friend closely. Though he had been angry over the Musketeer's decision to leave Athos behind, he knew the man well enough to realise just how much the decision was eating away at him. They were Musketeers, Aramis had been right, and to a point so had Athos. The mission had to come first, but there should have been another way; Athos hadn't needed to offer himself up as bait in order for it to be accomplished. What angered Porthos most, was the fact he could not, in all fairness, himself have offered a better alternative to achieve their goal.

Porthos came to a decision. Time was up, they had given him much more than an hour, they should turn around and find out what had happened. If all had gone well, then they would probably meet him on the road, if not… well, he didn't want to go there. Finally, as if in answer to Porthos' silent contemplations, Aramis broke the silence.

'Even if his plan is working, it could well be another hour before we meet. For every mile we continue, the distance between us increases; it has already been longer than we know. If we do decide to turn around, it will add more hours, as we cannot keep up this pace any longer.'

'He will have been gone hours by then. A lot can happen in that time, none of it good.' Porthos' voice was grave, but this time there was no blame or recrimination in his tone. They both remembered the sight that had greeted them in the Chatelet – not something they wished to witness again. Porthos looked at his friend. 'I'm sorry about earlier, I know you were right and, what's worse, he was too. It's just the way he has to keep putting himself in danger.' Aramis reached out, placing his hand upon his friend's shoulder.

'I know, mon ami, I know. He does seem to have an uncanny knack of putting himself in harm's way.' With that, Aramis looked off into the distance once more. There was always the chance they would catch sight of the man himself, and then all this would be over.

'He don't care do he?' Porthos asked quietly. Aramis did not avert his gaze from the distant path, as he responded with a long drawn out breath.

'I am very afraid he does not, but we can, and as long as we have a choice, we will not leave him behind again.' He looked at Porthos and grinned, as though reaching a decision had lightened his soul. The big Musketeer grinned back.

'Abaht time!' Spurring his horse forward, he charged in the direction from which they had come, Aramis close by his side.

Athos heard the question Bisset was asking but, in all honesty, he didn't know how to respond. Who was he? He really didn't know any more. It was a question that deserved to be deliberated on at length. However, now was not the time for such self-reflection, and he doubted that Bisset would be so patient. For now, the ruse Treville had suggested would suffice. Looking the man in the eye he adopted his most haughty tone, and answered the question.

'I am the garrison sword master.' He had always been a firm believer in keeping his speech succinct, it was a habit he had learned the hard way, as a child. It seemed his opinions and questions were always wrong, his father always declaring what a disappointment he was. Brevity had been his defence – a strategy that served him still.

Bisset's eye narrowed, 'Indeed, and what is a lowly sword master doing escorting Musketeers on a mission of such import?' Athos held the man's gaze, eyes never wavering. So, this was not some random attack, the man obviously had knowledge of the mission. He tried to clear his thoughts, but his head ached, and he could no longer feel his hands, but still he would not let his discomfort show.

'I am not privy to the details of the mission… I know we are delivering a missive to someone in Orleans...' Athos dragged the details out, partly to give the impression he was more severely hurt than he was, and partly to give himself time to think. 'The garrison is over-stretched escorting guests to the palace… so the Captain decided I would be more useful adding my sword to… those of the two Musketeers.' He knew he was tiring – he had not slept the night before and his headache was pounding inside his skull and sending stars before his tired eyes.

Bisset was still holding the sword to Athos' throat, but his attention was currently fixed upon the elaborate hilt, contemplating the man's explanation. He diverted his gaze and stared at the man held at his mercy. His eyes bore into the swordsman's soul, as if he could find the answers he sought. Receiving no satisfaction, he threw the sword to one side in frustration. He gestured to Pierre and Berger to follow him and, without a word, strode purposefully out of the room, locking the door behind them.

Athos let out a long breath. He had not expected Bisset to give up so easily. Slowly, he began to assess the damage, starting at the top. His head was aching unmercifully – probably concussion from the pistol butt to the back of his head. His shoulders screamed for release, rebelling against the agonising position they had been forced to endure, but they would survive. The cut to his throat and chest were nothing more than surface scratches, and were quickly dismissed. Other than that, his wrists were bleeding, and there was a cut above his eye that probably needed stitching. How he had survived the repeated pummelling without damage to his recently healed ribs was nothing short of a miracle. He may well be bruised all over, but nothing was broken and, for that, he would request that Aramis thank God. Now, all he had to do was work out a plan to get his hands free.

Aramis and Porthos had been forced to slow their pace once more, this time because the horses were tiring. They had ridden hard, stopping only briefly to water their mounts, before resuming their journey. Mid-day was fast approaching, and still they had seen no sign of another living soul. The tall trees had opened out and the sky was grey and brooding up above. The air was still ice-cold and the breath from both animals and men billowed in front of them. In the distance, Aramis' sharp eyes spotted something moving, and at speed, though there seemed something haphazard in its movements. A horse and rider. He signalled to Porthos, and the two men stopped, drawing their weapons. The rider pulled up, and the horse began turning in circles, rearing and snorting in the cold air, steam rising from its heated body. As the two men grew closer, Porthos gaped and Aramis felt his heart begin to hammer in his chest. The horse _had_ no rider – and the horse was Roger.

'Whoa, boy,' the big Musketeer crooned, grabbing at the horse's reins as it continued to stamp and snort. 'Where's your master boy?' The large black stallion was covered in sweat and frothing at the mouth. 'He's been galloping for some time,' Porthos stated, his expression barely concealing his concern. 'We can't expect him to ride back with us, but we can't leave 'im here.' Aramis looked around for inspiration.

'Are we not very close to where we began our journey this morning?' Both Musketeers looked around. The familiar ridge was to their right, but instead of towering above them it was much lower, and sloping gently toward the forest. 'The cave must be further on.' Thinking out loud, Aramis continued: 'If I were Athos, I would have waited for the men to catch up with me and then let them follow. Seeking them out would have been risky, and it would not have looked natural; they could well have caught him before he could put his plan into action.' If only Aramis knew, being caught had been the swords man's intention all along.

'If they discovered him, it must have been between here and the cave. We should be on our guard.' said Aramis. He looked at Porthos, who nodded. They kept their weapons at the ready and trotted on, Roger keeping pace meekly beside them. They had not gone far, when Porthos held up his hand. The big man could track like an animal – his survival instincts were acute, and the hairs were standing up on his neck now. He slid from his horse and walked slowly along the path, scanning his surroundings.

'Over here!' He ran to a spot and bent low to the ground. When Aramis reached him, it was clear what had grabbed his attention. The ground was churned up, almost chipped away, as though something rough and sharp had stabbed at the frozen earth – horses. They examined the ground, but it was Aramis who spotted the dark stain upon the still-frozen ground. The blood that not long ago had been so red and fresh against the glistening frost, was now dried and dark, a bleak memento of the skirmish that had taken place hours earlier. Aramis rubbed his fingers over the rusty spot, his face bleak as he held them up to Porthos, the red of blood unmistakable.

'Blood,' Porthos declared, as if it needed to be said. They hunted around and found several more traces, especially where the corpse had fallen from his horse, after stopping one of Athos' bullets. Porthos grinned to try and hide his concern.

'Athos… There wouldn't be so much blood if they had killed him, right?' Answering his friend, Aramis tried to look positive.

'Let us hope so, mon ami. If so, he has done us a favour, perhaps lessening the odds and improving our chances.'

At that moment, Athos – suffering a beating from Bisset and his minions – was hoping exactly the same thing.

Employing as much stealth as possible, Porthos walked his horse in the direction the meagre clues suggested. He was grateful that one of the men hadn't died, as his slow bleeding was kindly providing a trail for them to follow.

They had not walked far, in fact just a little distance from the cave where they had spent the night, when they saw smoke. Tethering the horses, they moved stealthily on foot. As they reached a line of trees at the edge of clearing, they halted and waited. In the middle stood a large barn-like structure. It seemed in good repair, with small windows here and there, dirty and high off the ground. There were several horses tethered up outside, but there was no sign of the bandits. The Musketeers did not have to wait long, for just then Bisset emerged from the hut barking orders. He mounted his horse, along with four other riders, and charged off through the trees, heading in the opposite direction to where Aramis and Porthos were concealed.

Porthos tried to remember how many had ridden past as he and Athos had watched them ride by the day before. For a moment, he could hardly believe it had only been yesterday; it seemed since they had met this man, time had ceased to function as it should – too much was happening way too quickly. If Athos still lived, and he sincerely hoped he did, they would have to talk; his pace of life was far too hectic for the big Musketeer.

So, twelve to begin with. If Athos had taken down one, then eleven. Five had ridden away, though where to and for how long they did not know. That left six – now they were odds Porthos could cope with. If Aramis could pick off a couple, which he knew the man could, as long as the others did not return, they might be in with a chance. Patiently, they watched and waited. Four men came outside holding bottles of wine; even better, drunk they would be easier still. If they were drinking, then maybe they didn't expect their leader – if that was who had ridden away – to return for some time.

Two of the men went back inside hugging their bottles, complaining of the cold, leaving the other two behind.

'Softly?' asked Porthos grinning like an excited child.

'Softly mon ami,' whispered Aramis, stowing his weapon and clapping his friend quietly on the shoulder. The two Musketeers inched forward keeping close to the line of trees. The two assassins stood laughing a little way from the barn, enjoying their drinks, oblivious to the danger that stalked them. One walked away to answer the call of nature, and Porthos smiled. He edged closer still and, whilst the man was engrossed in his business, the big man reached out and twisted his head at a rather unnatural angle. Simultaneously, Aramis pulled his _main gauche_ and thrust it into the other man's neck, letting him slip slowly to the floor, gurgling his last.

They wasted no time upon the dead as they crept toward the entrance of the barn. The inside of the large building had obviously been made into smaller storage areas, presumably to house a variety of contents – contraband most likely. Aramis could see boxes stacked on top of each other, as well as casks that very likely held wine or brandy. Two men were sitting just inside the barn, playing a game of cards. The two Musketeers were just about to dispatch them, when they clearly heard the sudden, but unmistakeable, sound of clashing steel.

Athos wasn't sure how long it had been now. He thought the light might be dimming from the dirty, sack-covered windows, but it might only have been his tired eyes. His sword was tantalizingly just out of reach. Even if he had been able to inch it closer, there would have been no way he could have utilised it to cut through his bindings. No, he needed _them_ to free him. He went over his options, few as they were – he would rather attempt to fight his way out, than wait here to die. As he mulled over his choices, he heard the scraping of the lock, as the heavy door swung inward. In the doorway stood Pierre and Bergen. It was obvious they had been drinking, and Athos hoped this was a good sign, though somehow he doubted that Bissett would run such a shoddy set-up. He glared at the two men and waited them out.

'Bisset has gone after your friends.' Athos almost closed his eyes. Had he given them enough time?

'He will be back soon, the village isn't far. Bisset told us to dispose of you. He won't be bringing the others back. He only wants the letter.' Athos' spirits rose, they had believed him. They had not followed the Musketeers to Orleans, assuming they were in the village close by. How long would it take the man to realise Athos had lied? If he was going to live, he had to convince these men to let him go.

'So why are you two here? Were you only fit for babysitting?' Athos goaded the men, and hoped it would not completely backfire on him. Bergen looked as if he were to about to rise to the bait, but Pierre stopped him.

'Bisset thought we might want justice for my brother and Pierre's' cousin. He said we could be as inventive as we wanted.' Athos smirked, as he gave his mocking retort.

'It is certainly a brave man who would torture and kill an opponent who is tied and bound. At least your kin had the opportunity to fight for their lives,' Athos sneered. Pierre looked at Bergen, and then he grinned. He stepped across the room and retrieved the sword from where Bisset had hurled it earlier.

'You really want to take us both on, in the state you are in?' Athos smiled, he liked where this was going. He might even enjoy it. Bergen did not look so keen, he glanced at the sword then back at Athos, who was almost beaming at the prospect. But it was the icy glare preventing the smile from reaching his eyes which should have alerted the assassins to his real intent.

'Let's just cut him up, then slit his throat,' Bergen suggested, beginning to twitch. Pierre frowned.

'No let's give him what he wants, untie him.' Bergen stood his ground, licking his lips, reluctant to move. Athos looked at Pierre.

'Why don't you ask your brother?' As Athos expected, his provoking enraged the man, and he stood in front of Athos, their noses almost touching.

'You bastard! He'll probably never talk again, not with half a tongue.' Athos retained his vacant mask before he responded.

'I am sure the world will weep.' That was it. Pierre swung his arm, but his fist did not make contact; instead his dagger cut through the rope that was keeping Athos standing, and he dropped to the floor like a marionet without strings. Pierre gave him a swift kick and demanded:

'Get up!' He kicked him again, as Athos crawled onto his knees. 'I said get up!' Athos attempted to comply, but the sensation of the blood rushing to his arms and fingers was excruciating. He managed to stand, swaying dangerously, and glared at the two men.

'So, you want to fight?' Pierre grinned. 'Well, so be it, you asked for it. But let's make it more interesting.' He tapped Athos' right arm with the tip of his own sword. 'After all you are a sword master for the King's own regiment, and we are only lowly criminals after all. Seems only fair we should even the odds.' He looked at Pierre, who was quickly catching on to his friend's plan.

'The odds are already in your favour,' pointed out Athos. 'There are two of you and only one of me. Unless of course I am seeing double – and that would be preferable, as if not you are both very ugly.' Raising his brow, he waited to see how they would react.

'Break it,' Pierre snarled. Athos swayed, this was not what he had had in mind. He had hoped to goad them into action, but not this. Bergen had taken just one step, when Athos swung both hands with as much strength as he could, catching the man off guard. Bergan flew through the air landing in a heap. Unfortunately, he was only winded, and he was back on his feet incredibly quickly. Stalking toward the bound man, he made short work of the bindings that tied his wrists and grabbed his right arm. Athos held his breath and waited for the inevitable snap. The man was obviously not adept at this type of violence; he bent the swordsman's arm behind his back but, instead of the crack he was anticipating, he heard a hollow pop, as the shoulder dislocated from its socket. This time he could not hold in the cry that exploded from his lips, but at the same time he was thanking Aramis' God, as at least a dislocation could be fixed. In the meantime... He gritted his teeth and almost smiled as Pierre handed him his sword.

Athos breathed hard, as wave upon wave of agony swept through his body. Though his wish for combat had been fulfilled, he had not planned upon the disadvantage of a dislocated shoulder. He needed to control the fight somehow. 'Gentleman, now I am at a distinct disadvantage, at least give me some leeway.' He waved his sword, now held in his left hand, and indicated the rather cramped space of the room in which he was being held. The two men looked around and grunted. Berger pointed his sword at Athos and pushed him out of the door into the next room. Athos could see he was in a much larger barn; all it contained were hay bales for winter food and the odd barrel stacked against the wooden walls. Pierre pulled out his weapon and, wasting no time, the two men began to circle.

'Perhaps we should give him a chance,' Pierre chuckled, 'as he can't use his sword arm.'

'Now why would we want to do that?' Berger smirked. The two men seemed to lunge simultaneously, smiles plastered on their faces. Athos parried Berger on his left, and twisted his blade around the man's sword, leaving it free to block the attack from Pierre. The swiftness of his defence took both men by surprise. Athos could not afford to waste time, and took full advantage. Batting Berger's sword away, he continued his lunge, slicing the front of the man's jacket, drawing blood, but not enough to kill. It was at that point, that the two Musketeers rushed into the room.

As Porthos and Aramis stood in the doorway, listening to the clamour of clashing steel, the two men playing cards looked up in surprise. They did not have chance to draw their own weapons before the two Musketeers had sprung into action, rendering them unconscious. Leaping over their prostrate forms, toward the sound of sword play, they pulled up short, in time to see Athos draw first blood. But this was not a duel between gentleman, and the battle continued.

'He is alive,' Aramis beamed as he glanced at Porthos.

'He's hurt. His right arm's broke or sumthin',' Porthos noted, moving to help the injured man. Aramis reached out his arm to stop his friend. He could tell Athos had the fight well under control, and was astonished to see that he was using his left arm.

'Watch,' he whispered to Porthos, though he prepared his musket just in case.

Athos had observed the men go through various emotions, from gloating to scared, though he registered no satisfaction. He had lost a certain amount of balance through not having the use of his right arm, but apart from that he was keeping them at bay. Pierre growled and lunged then, to his horror, he watched as the swordsman's blade parried his clumsy attack and entered his stomach. He stared wide-eyed at Athos, with a look akin to wonder as he sank to his knees. Berger made the mistake of glancing down at his friend and, before he knew it, Athos' blade had swept across his throat. Berger's blade fell from his hands as he made a futile attempt to stem the bleeding from his neck, before he, too, fell dead to the floor.

Athos bent over, trying to catch his breath. He had been too busy concentrating on his opponents to notice the arrival of the two Musketeers. Sensing movement behind him, he swung around, sword at the ready, only to see Aramis with both hands held in surrender, Porthos at his side looking somewhat staggered.

'It's us, remember? The ones you left behind?' Porthos glowered at the breathless man, then grabbed him in a huge bear hug. Athos did not push him away this time, on the contrary, as the big man let him go and Aramis took his place, he held the Musketeer in his own embrace.

'That, mon ami, was a remarkably stupid thing to do,' Aramis berated him. Athos quirked a brow before giving a drawling riposte.

'I am always prepared to accept when I am wrong.' Aramis and Porthos smiled, but Athos continued, 'However, I was not.' They looked aghast for a second, then began to laugh, and even Athos managed a twitch of the lips. Aramis pulled himself together first.

'Seriously, you are hurt.' He pushed Athos' heavy fringe away from his forehead and watched the man wince as he felt around the cut over his eye. 'It is not deep, though it probably could have done with stitching. However, it is rather too late for that now.' Athos raised a brow, cutting off the medic's ministrations.

'My arm,' he muttered. Aramis felt around Athos' shoulder, as the man winced and let out a long moan. The medic looked over to Porthos.

'This is your territory, my friend.' Athos rolled his eyes as he saw the big man approaching. Porthos gave Athos a wide grin, holding his gaze, eyes full of mischief and said:

'This might be a good time to say you're sorry!' Athos simply gave him _the_ stare, indicating it was never going to happen. Then, before he was aware of Porthos' intention, the Musketeer had grabbed the swordsman's right arm and braced himself against the man's back. Athos howled as, with a sharp upward tug, the shoulder returned to its socket with a sickening pop. The sharp pain lessened, leaving a dull throbbing in its place; it appeared that the banging in his head now had competition, and Athos had to breathe deeply to stop nausea from overwhelming him.

'Thank you,' he managed. 'But I had hoped you would be at the Chateau by now.' His gaze suggested his displeasure, but the two Musketeers could see that he was not really trying.

'I see you can fight with your left arm as well as your right,' Aramis observed with a smile. Athos considered his arm for a moment then, with a slightly abashed expression, smiled at Aramis.

'My left arm is good, but my right arm is better.' Aramis was delighted, and clapped him on his good shoulder.

'And I suppose you neglected to tell them that. This is a story I am looking forward to, but I suspect now is not the time.'

At that moment, Athos became instantly alert. 'Bissett. He went looking for you in the village. He will be back… Soon!'


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

Athos retrieved his missing main gauche from Bergen's body; luckily his pistols were still on the card-strewn table. Taking a deep breath, he followed the Musketeers outside. Checking there was no sign of Bisset and his gang, the three men retreated into the trees.

'Do we stay and finish 'em off?' Porthos asked. Athos and Aramis exchanged a silent communication, before Aramis spoke.

'If we leave them alive, then we will be looking over our shoulders for the rest of the way to Oreleans.' Athos gave a single nod, before adding his opinion.

'Bisset will have no idea we are waiting. We should be able to end this, and complete our mission. We have already lost a day.' The implication was not wasted on the two Musketeers; they all knew there was still much that remained unsaid about the day's events.

Nodding in assent, they spread out and each found cover, muskets at the ready. The light was beginning to fade, and all of them were tired, particularly Athos – though he would never admit to such a failing. His head still hammered, and he had made no mention of the blurred vision – he was in no mood for Aramis' ministrations. He would endure the medic's anger later.

They heard the stamp of hooves before the riders came into sight. Bisset slid off his horse, his entire demeanour radiating fury. As he stalked into the barn, the first bullets were fired – one, then a second. Both found their mark, two men falling to the frozen floor. The other two took cover as Bisset peered out from the doorway, his pistol materialising around the frame. He would have seen the bodies of his men inside the barn and assumed it to be the work of the two returned Musketeers. What he would not have had time to establish, was whether they had rescued their swordsman – or avenged his death.

Two more shots rang out, and another bandit fell, emitting a piercing wail. Bisset was no fool, he knew he could not prevail when the odds were against him. Better to leave and recover what he could from the situation.

Porthos had been working his way silently around to the side of the barn, and was just in time to see Bisset running for the rear wall, where there was another small door. He took aim and fired through the dirt-streaked glass. His bullet was deflected and, instead of hitting Bisset, ignited one of the many barrels. One minute the Musketeer was leaning against the planked wall, the next he was flying through the air as, one after another, the barrels exploded. The atmosphere was at once filled with smoke and flying debris. Planks of wood caught fire and the blaze began to intensify – the alcohol in the barrels, as well as the dried bales, adding to the tumult.

Aramis and Athos grabbed the large man beneath his arms and dragged him back into the trees. Of Bisset and his remaining man there was no sign. They watched the conflagration shoot high into the twilight sky, as more barrels succumbed to the heat and flame. Porthos was unharmed, apart from one or two scratches and a particularly nasty splinter embedded in his thigh. Aramis stopped him just before the big man started to pull it free.

'Best leave it in place, until I can get a better look at it, my friend.' He looked grave but his eyes were twinkling, and the Musketeer nodded in agreement.

'We should move,' declared Athos, succinct as ever. The other two looked back at the burning wreckage. The fire would burn itself out quickly now there was nothing left to feed it. Still, they did not know who may have seen the glow, or who may come to investigate. Much better if they were not around to answer questions.

They headed back to where the horses were tethered. Both Musketeers couldn't help but enjoy the moment when horse and master were reunited. Athos smiled, not the usual smirk, but a genuine expression of warmth. Aramis was glad the man was able to let himself care for something – even if it was his horse. Darkness was rapidly approaching, and now the adrenalin of the skirmish had drained from their bodies, all three of them were overtaken by the cold. Small flakes of snow were beginning to fall, and already the ground was sparkling with an early frost. It was going to be a very cold night. Aramis spoke.

'It would probably be for the best if we headed back to the cave. It was warm in there and we had a good view of the road.' Porthos looked pleased but Athos was angry. Aramis guessed what was going through the man's head, but he did not regret their decision to return. He would deal with the man's anger when it finally erupted and, if it did not, he would deal with it anyway.

They stopped briefly at the side of a small stream to water the horses and fill their flasks. Athos cupped his hands and splashed his face, partly to wash off the dried blood from around his eye, but mainly to cool his face, for despite the weather he was warm and clammy. Aramis noted the man's actions, and was about to check if Athos was as well as he maintained, when Porthos interrupted his thoughts.

'Is it far? Only this piece of wood stickin' out of my leg is annoyin'.' What he actually meant was it hurt – Aramis realised this, but he said nothing. As Athos did not appear to have any wounds that needed urgent attention, Porthos' leg was a priority.

'Over there, my friend, on the other side of the road is the path we followed this morning. 'They were all reminded of that moment – Athos watching the two men ride away and the two Musketeers each reliving their anger and guilt at leaving Athos behind. It did nothing to improve the already tense mood. By the time the horses stopped just outside the cave, all three men were glad to be there, even Athos. His vision was poor, his headache was making him increasingly nauseous, and he didn't want to even think about the other parts of his body that had begun to stiffen and complain at their most recent treatment. However, in his assessment, none of it was life-threatening, and he was not in the mood to be fussed over.

Without the need for discussion, each of them about their tasks, quietly and efficiently. Athos prepared the bed rolls, whilst Porthos gathered wood, breaking up the old crates that were at the back of the cave, and while they were doing that, Aramis examined their supplies. They had not had chance to acquire anything further since they had left the inn two days ago, but neither had they had much opportunity to eat. Nevertheless, though the bread was no longer edible, there was still a good amount of cheese and some apples, as well as the wine, which none of them had thought to touch the night before. Now seemed a good moment to share the news.

'I am afraid our supplies are not grand, but we do have a couple of bottles of wine,' advised Aramis, letting the words sink in and watching Porthos' face break into a smile. Athos looked amused but said nothing. 'It is time I looked at that wound, my friend,' said Aramis, addressing Porthos. 'You have waited long enough.'

Aramis had to cut through the man's breeches, as the wood was long and he didn't want to risk breaking it off. Porthos hissed as he poured some of the wine over the wound to help him see what he was doing. 'Athos, can you bring me more light.' Athos lit a branch and held it close, so the medic could check the state of the wound. Aramis smiled up at a scowling Porthos. 'You are lucky. The wood is smooth and, as it was blown apart, it is quite clean. It will, however, hurt when I…' Before he finished his sentence, he pulled at the slither of wood, wincing as the big man yelled.

'Why didn't ya warn me?' Porthos growled, frowning in discomfort. Aramis shrugged his shoulders.

'I thought my way would be less stressful,' he replied, giving Porthos an innocent smile.

'Really? I must try to remember that the next time you need somat pulling out of your leg,' he grumbled. But he was not really angry, and Aramis knew it. Inspecting the wound, he could see that, although it didn't require stitching, it did need to be watched.

'Would this help?' Both men looked up. Athos had been so quiet they had almost forgotten he was there. He was holding out a bottle of brandy – one more thing he had retrieved from the trunk, one more thing that had been added without his instruction, but received with gratitude.

'Mon ami that will indeed be helpful.' He proceeded to pour a liberal amount over Porthos' leg before passing it to the Musketeer to drink. Athos groaned and rolled his eyes at the waste. Both men smiled as they passed the bottle back to Athos, who checked the contents before returning it to his satchel. He then sat by the fire and settled to brood, but Aramis was having none of it.

'Now it is your turn.' He smiled and headed over to the morose Athos. The man looked up from the flames and glared, his intent to deny any attempt to come near him. Aramis frowned, 'Musketeer rules?' Athos continued to practise his most glacial stare and retorted:

'I am not a Musketeer!'

'No, and you never will be if you pull a stunt like that again – you'll be dead.' So, there it was, out in the open. Porthos could contain his emotions no longer – he had been the one who had felt Athos' actions the most, and had blamed himself for not realising what he had been planning. Aramis said nothing. Athos was gazing into the fire once more, showing no sign that he meant to offer any explanation. Aramis could see beads of sweat on the swordsman's brow, and he doubted that it was from the heat of the fire. The cave was warm, and both Porthos and Aramis had removed their coats, but not Athos. As Aramis was about to confront Athos – whether he liked it or not – the man spoke. He did not turn to look at either of the men but continued to stare into the fire.

'It was a sensible solution. You are Musketeers and you had a mission. If we had continued, and been forced to fight, someone would have been killed – maybe all of us. You needed time… and I could give you that.' There was something in the way he spoke the last few words that revealed his true intentions. Porthos looked incredulous.

'You did it on purpose, you let them take you! Yer never had any intention of leading them away, did yer?' Aramis closed his eyes and passed his hand over his hair. Athos spoke again, this time he looked up at Porthos, his expression bleak.

'Not at first, no. However, eventually I decided it was the best way to keep them… occupied, and let you escape.'

'And you didn't think to ask us!' Aramis yelled, his temper finally getting the better of him. Athos spoke, though his voice was low and quiet.

'There was no point.'

'Of course there wasn't, because we would have said no!' Athos looked at Aramis, his defensive mask in place once more.

'Precisely.' He went to rise but his legs were weak, and he swayed as they threatened to buckle beneath him. Porthos was instantly at his side, despite the aching in his own leg. He lowered the stubborn man to the ground and Aramis squatted next to the shivering figure. Athos had closed his eyes, and Aramis leant his forehead against Athos' dark fringe, trying to soothe the soul of the troubled man.

'Why do you keep doing this, mon ami? Why must you keep throwing yourself into harm's way?' Athos did not reply, but neither did he push the man away, letting the Musketeer offer him a little comfort, if only for a moment. Aramis could feel the warmth radiating from Athos, and as he went to move his hand from the man's hair, his fingers stuck in the thick strands – hard, matted and tangled. Then he felt the huge lump on the back of his head and cursed.

' _Merde_ , when were you going to tell us about that?'

'It's nothing.' Athos now pushed Aramis away signalling that the moment of closeness was over.

'What's up?' Porthos asked, giving Athos a look that dared him to say, _nothing_ , again.

'He has a lump on the back of his head the size of an egg, and it has been bleeding. He probably has a concussion, and he is running a fever.' Both men glared at Athos in unison. He would almost have seen the funny side of it, both men angry over his silence, yet equally worried in the same measure. Still he could not help thinking how unused to such behaviour he was. The only person who had ever worried over his injuries or ill health had been his nanny, and for such behaviour she had been replaced before he had reached double figures. Instead, his _welfare,_ had been overseen by a stern and formidable tutor. No warm hugs or someone to dry the tears of the Viscount de la Fère. The two Musketeers could see that Athos' mind was somewhere else by the way he stared once more into the fire; his face had a vulnerability about it that they had not seen before. Aramis sighed and gestured to Porthos to give him space.

'At least let me check the wound, mon ami. Though with those thick curls you may have avoided the need for stitches.' Athos sat stiff and upright but did not deny the medic's request. Aramis felt around the bump whilst Porthos held the torch. The cut was not deep, but had probably bled quite a lot, as head wounds usually did. He stroked down Athos' hair before he made his next request. Inhaling deeply, he asked:

'Can I see the rest?' Athos looked at him, their eyes meeting, and Aramis could see the conflict in the other man's eyes. 'I only want to content myself that there is nothing seriously amiss, as you do not declare such things voluntarily.' Athos did not break eye contact, but gave the slightest nod of the head. Aramis helped him out of his doublet, noting how the man hissed as he removed the damaged arm. He slipped his arms out of his shirt and the medic lifted it up. Aramis and Porthos both flinched at the sight of the large black bruises that covered his torso, as well as the scratch that ran from his throat down to his collar bone. It was red and had bled, but again he had been lucky, and no stitches were needed. Lucky. How could they even begin to use that term when they saw the results of Athos' capture? Porthos rose and walked away, before spinning around and shouting at the swordsman.

'And you thought this was a good idea? The only way?' He stood, legs apart, hands on his hips, like a colossus. Aramis made a gesture indicating that his friend should calm down. Porthos snorted and stalked to the entrance of the cave, staring out into the night. Aramis moved to touch Athos' ribs. This time the man batted his hand away and pulled down his shirt, shivering slightly.

'They are not broken… on my honour!' He added the words as he saw the look of disbelief in the medic's eyes. He broke contact and returned to staring into the flames. Aramis walked slowly to his satchel and began to mix the contents of a small paper sachet into a cup of water. He sat next to Athos and handed him the vessel.

'Here drink this, it is a pain potion, it will help your head and shoulder… as well as the rest.' When Athos spoke, his voice was so quiet that Aramis almost missed it, the velvet murmur nothing like his usual haughty tone.

'Will it help me sleep?' The words sounded more like a plea than a question and, hearing the man sound so broken, Aramis felt his heart squeeze. Athos was tired, and his fatigue, along with the pain – though it had abated somewhat – were both threatening to lower his defences.

'Yes, mon ami,' Aramis confirmed, placing his arm around the man's shoulders. He was surprised when he felt Athos lean into him slightly, instead of pulling away. He decided not to waste the opportunity.

'You do not sleep well?' It was an understatement from what Aramis had witnessed, but it was enough for now. Athos paused, and Aramis thought he would not answer.

'They come for me in my sleep. Crying, always crying, cold... pale… and blood, so much blood.' His voice was far away, and once more it was as though he was somewhere else.

'Who, mon ami?'Aramis encouraged. The spell was broken, and Athos blinked. He straightened once more before he looked at Aramis. His voice was firm, but in his eyes were the remains of whatever horror he had witnessed in his mind's eye.

'The dead,' he whispered. Then he broke all contact, absorbed once more by the flames - wrapping his arms around his legs and sinking his head to his knees. Porthos had walked back inside; for a man his size, he could move as silently as a cat. Aramis looked over his shoulder toward the big man. Porthos simply nodded, he had heard it all. Aramis broke the heavy silence.

'We should get some sleep.' The statement broke through Athos' deep reverie. He lifted his head, and his voice was businesslike and arrogant once more.

'I will take the first watch.'

'No!' both Musketeers shouted simultaneously. Athos almost smiled. There was a slight twitch of his lips and he quirked his brow, but he said nothing, just shrugged his shoulders.

'I'm not falling for that one again in a hurry,' swore Porthos, though even he wore the ghost of a smile. 'I will take the first watch, and Aramis will relieve me. You…,' indicating the smirking Athos, 'You will sleep – all night!' The look he offered dared the man to argue, but Porthos was unaware just how much Athos hoped that he was right.


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

The snow was continuing to fall rapidly, so Porthos had wrapped himself up well, and was sat just inside the cave with a small fire to keep him warm. It was ridiculous to think anyone would try and mount an attack in the dark, especially in these conditions. Still precautions had to be taken, and at least he had rested well the night before.

Aramis had gone to sleep almost as soon as he had laid down his head. They were all back together again and, although Athos' concussion would have to be watched, as would Porthos' leg, he had prayed neither would become a problem.

It was Athos who could not sleep. Despite having had no rest the night before, despite the beating he had endured, and despite Aramis' concoction, sleep would not come. Part of him was relieved, yet his eyes were so heavy he could not keep them open. However, his mind had other ideas, it raced back and forth, finding no solace in sleep. To be any use to the two Musketeers, he knew he needed rest. But Bisset's words continued to echo inside his head: _Who are you?... Who are you?_ At the time, he had been glad of the pain and urgency surrounding the question, which had not allowed him time to delve too deeply into his conscious to contemplate the answer.

Who was he indeed? Was he the Comte de la Fère, wealthy landowner and powerful lord of all that he possessed, with tenants who owed him fealty? People who looked at him to protect them and uphold the law. Was he Olivier de Athos, husband of Anne, brother to Thomas? No, not anymore. No, he was nothing – to anyone. Those people, his people, were better off without him; he was not the lord they needed. He had tried to do his duty, and in succeeding for them, he had failed himself. These men thought they cared for him; Treville thought he was an honourable man. They were all wrong, he was not that man. A part of him had died back there.

He had been right to give himself up for the Musketeers' safety, and they should not have returned for him. If he had died, they may have grieved, but a man like him was soon forgotten. Then why could _he_ not forget _his_ dead? Why did _his_ dead come for him every night? Pleading, begging for their lives, their haunting cries turning to anger, because he was still living, and they were not. Why could _he_ not simply grieve and forget? With tears sliding gently onto his overly warm cheeks, he curled himself up against the world, and finally slid into oblivion.

In the early hours, Aramis awoke and rose to relieve Porthos from his watch. Aramis could tell his friend was dwelling on something by the vague look the man gave him. Sitting beside the Musketeer, he asked:

'What is wrong, my friend?' Aramis could have guessed but thought it best for Porthos to unburden himself. The big Musketeer's expression ran through a gamut of emotions, from anger to frustration, before finally settling on sorrow.

'I didn't mean to give 'im a hard time, not like that anyway.' He ran his hand through his thick curls. 'You heard what he said, he let himself be caught, he knew what would happen. They could have killed him and saved themselves some time. How could he be so selfish?' Aramis let his friend finish his rant. He knew Porthos wasn't so much angry as worried. 'Did he think that would impress the Captain, the King? Did he think that's what he needed to do to get a commission?' Aramis shook his head.

'No, I do not believe he did any of it for himself. I think he would be appalled if he knew we would think such a thing. No, he did it for the mission, and to keep us safe.' He looked at Porthos, trying to gauge his reaction. As he suspected, the anger left him in a second – the man was quick to lose his temper but just as quick to become calm once more. Porthos might be a man of action, but he wore his heart on his sleeve.

'We had a right to know,' Porthos choked. Aramis gazed over at the still figure.

'He knew we would argue. He is stubborn.' Porthos grunted but calmed a little.

'He's not taking any watch until he promises not to do that again,' the big man threatened. Aramis

nodded, looking forward to that locking of horns.

Porthos bade his friend goodnight and exhaled as his weary body lay down upon his bedding. Before he closed his eyes, he noted the sleeping Athos, curled up tight, face against the wall, barricades erected.

As dawn rose, Porthos sat up, stretched, and yawned. Glancing across the cave, he noted Athos' empty bedroll and jumped to his feet. At that moment, both Aramis and the swordsman walked into the cave carrying more wood. Both of the fires were almost out, and the wood they had gathered the night before had all been used up. Porthos quickly tried to calm himself , but he could tell by the quirk of Athos' brow and the look upon Aramis' face that they had caught his horrified expression.

'Something wrong?' Athos asked in his usual laconic tone. Porthos narrowed his eyes, well aware he was being set up.

'Nah, just stretching.' Athos nodded, the small trace of a smirk upon his lips. Aramis was beaming and, throwing the wood upon the fire, he prepared to boil some water.

'How is that leg of yours, mon ami?' he asked Porthos, deciding it was time for a change of topic. It was the big Musketeer's turn to smile now.

'It's good. No redness, sore, but I'll live. What abaht him?' he nodded toward Athos, but his expression told Aramis he was just getting his own back.

' _He_ is fine,' Athos responded, just the hint of mischief in his eyes. The three men sat around the fire in easy silence, drinking tea and finishing off the cheese. Athos drank only tea, and once more Aramis made a mental note.

'If we have a steady ride and stop briefly to refresh the horses, we should make the Chateau by late afternoon,' Aramis stated. Porthos smirked.

'Providing we don't have any company!' There was brief pause, then Athos spoke.

'Bisset knew about the letter.' Aramis and Porthos listened attentively.

'Not just bandits then? I suspected there was more to it,' Aramis said, looking thoughtful. Porthos was puzzled.

'What did they want it for? It was just an invitation.' Athos contemplated the other two men.

'I don't think they wanted the letter itself. I think they just wanted to make sure it didn't reach its destination.' He raised both brows as he watched realisation dawn on the Musketeers' faces. 'Bisset didn't really want the invitation, he wanted you.' Porthos looked as though he was going to argue once more, so Aramis cut in.

'Richelieu!' He spat out the name, as though it tasted foul.

'It would make sense,' Athos nodded. 'You say he was appalled at the suggestion Gaston be invited.'

'Well there is one good thing about this, we should be safe once we reach the Chateau and the invitation has been delivered.' Aramis scanned the faces of the other two men. Porthos was nodding, but Athos still appeared to be deep in thought. 'What is wrong, mon ami?' Aramis asked. Athos shrugged.

'It seems somewhat drastic.' He stared at the two Musketeers who considered his statement.

'Richelieu wouldn't think so,' said Aramis. 'What are the lives of three men, especially a murderer… forgive me, my friend,' Athos smiled and nodded 'And two Musketeers. Not if it solved his problems.' Athos gazed up at the ceiling, shrugging once more he uttered:

'Perhaps.'

'Well, the sooner we start, the sooner we get there. Let us hope whoever the assassins were, they are dead.'

Having gathered their belongings, they were soon on their way. The morning was bright compared to the weather of late, and the sky was still streaked with oranges and golds from the rising dawn, a pale-yellow sun struggling to lighten the gloom of the forest. Last night's flurry had covered everything with a thick mantle of white, and there was no echo from the horses' hooves, the snow deadening the sound. There was a stillness, an unnatural quiet, that occurred when it snowed, as if nature were suspended; all that could be heard was the occasional drip from the thawing snow, balanced precariously upon the gaunt branches of the trees. Not wishing to risk injury to the horses, they were unable to travel as fast as they would like, as the ground was hidden beneath the recent fall, but at least the same conditions would affect anyone who tried to follow.

When a cold drop of water found its way down Porthos neck for the second time, the big man growled:

'I hate snow.' Aramis beamed, as he waved his hand before him, encompassing the snowy landscape.

'Why, mon ami? Such beauty, such purity. Only God could have created something so lovely.' He continued to smile as he eyed his friend with amusement.

'That's all very well, but why did he have to make it so cold?' Porthos continued to gripe. Athos snorted, a rare show of amusement at the two men's constant banter.

'You make too much fuss, my friend, it is fresh and much more pleasant than the streets of Paris,' retorted Aramis. Porthos leant down and grabbed a fistful of snow in his big hand. Balling it up, he threw it at the back of the pontificating Musketeer. His aim was true, and it hit Aramis hard on the back of his neck. Porthos laughed, and even Athos had a smile on his face. Aramis turned and glared at the laughing man, though he maintained an air that indicated he took no interest in the two men's antics. As the icy water ran down the Marksman's back, he rubbed his neck with his sash.

'Perhaps you are right, my friend. Perhaps its beauty is better appreciated at a distance.'

As the day wore on, the snow continued to melt, and the freezing weather of the last few days became more bearable. The wind, which had considerably added to the chill factor, had dropped, and even the sun's rays now held a modicum of heat.

Athos stared back along the road, as if anticipating company. Aramis tried to read his mood, but as always it was impossible.

'They may be dead,' said Aramis. 'That was quite an explosion back there. Unless Bisset survived, I doubt the other man would continue to follow us. It would be suicide.' He instantly regretted the words he had uttered, aware of how the sentiment could be misconstrued. Athos perceived the Marksman's reaction and sought to placate him.

'That was not my intention.' Aramis gazed at the swordsman, but when he noticed the glint in his eye, he relaxed.

'I am sorry, mon ami. I know it wasn't.' he looked in earnest at Athos, hoping to see a sign that he believed him.

'But you are not sure?' The question was delivered quietly, that velvet tone, the one that could instil comfort or terror, but it was accompanied this time by a sad smile. Returning from watering the horses, Porthos looked from one man to the other, and could see something had happened. Athos interrupted his musings before he could ask the question.

'Perhaps this might warm us through a little.' He held out the brandy to the two Musketeers, and both men smiled as the drink passed from hand to hand. Porthos looked down at the bottle.

'That's good brandy, it's almost worth gettin' cold for!' he beamed as the other two men shook their heads in amusement.

Mounting up, they set off at a brisk pace. With the snow almost gone, the ground was soft, but not dangerous. They saw only the odd farmer or tradesman moving from village to village, as their road passed from the forest onto a main thoroughfare. The going now firm, they increased their speed, anticipating their first sight of the Chateau at any moment. As the afternoon sun sank gently towards the horizon, so the first turrets from the building came into view, just the merest tips peeping above the towering spruce.

They rode through the gated pillars and up the long and winding avenue. Their first glimpse of the Chateau explained why the King's brother had made it his temporary home. It was really rather grand, even on the scale of a Chateau. Green tiles graced the elegantly sloping rooftops, and the family crest, along with the French flag, fluttered gracefully in the gently breeze. As they reached the heavily-studded doorway, it began to open. A well-dressed man approached, behind him, two heavily armed men. He noticed the pauldrons on the two Musketeers' uniforms and gave a hesitant smile.

'Good afternoon. To what do we owe the attentions of the King's Musketeers?' Aramis gave an elegant bow and smiled at his host.

'My name is Aramis,' he said and, indicating his two companions in turn, added: 'and this is Porthos and this Athos. We are on urgent business for His Majesty King Louis. We are here to deliver a missive for his brother, the Duc d'Orleans.' Briefly, the man hesitated, and his smile faltered.

'The Duke, you say?' He paused, as if unsure how to proceed. Aramis gave a look of consternation.

'The King was informed his brother was in residence at the Chateau d'Ambois, we have travelled for several days. Has His Majesty been misinformed?' The man began to bluster.

'No… no… that is...' Just then a reedy, piercing voice rang out.

'Jean Luc, my friend. Let the… gentlemen approach. If my brother has sent a communication, then I must read it. After all he is my King as well as my brother.' He perused the three men, as if deciding on their merit. His eyes lingered on Athos for a second longer, but his expression did not change. He kept the same sickly smile fixed on his face, a smile that held no warmth or emotion. 'Come inside, this is hardly the place to read a letter from my brother after so long an absence.' He gestured for the men to enter the Chateau, with the man Jean Luc nervously bringing up the rear. 'Please wait here, and I will see if there is to be a reply.' With that, he sauntered off behind the tall doors of a downstairs salon, leaving the three men standing in the grand hallway. They looked at each other doubtfully.

'Wait for a reply? He's not thinkin' of sending us back tonight with it is he?' an angry Porthos asked, face like thunder.

'He has no choice. Accept the escort, or no party.' Athos interjected. Ever alert to his surroundings, he noticed that Jean Luc had melted away through one of the many doorways, and they were alone. Two staircases rose high above them, converging on a galleried landing that traversed the entire width of the hallway. It was silent, and there was no sign of either other guests nor servants.

They had been waiting for some time when Porthos' stomach began to growl. Athos looked at the big man and rolled his eyes.

'What?' Porthos asked in innocence. 'A man has a right to be hungry.'

'Now, now, gentlemen. We are guests of the King's brother, let us not argue.' Athos responded to Aramis' attempt at appeasement, with a look that said he never argued. Aramis chortled quietly.

As Porthos made to continue his opinion, the door to the salon opened, and what a performance ensued.

The door to the salon was flung open and the Duke re-entered the room. 'What a great day this is,' he announced.

The three men looked around as if there was someone standing behind them to whom the statement had been delivered. The Duke continued, 'My brother has invited me home. He has forgiven the rashness of my youth and wishes me to attend my dear Queen Annes' birthday celebrations!' Then, as if he had just remembered that the Musketeers were there, he added, 'And you, gentlemen, are to give me safe passage, though I would have expected there to have been more of you.'

The three men did not rise to the remark, and offered no opinion on the Duke's delight. 'Preparations must be made, there is no time to waste. It seems you are late with your task and the party is to be in five days' time. We will travel at first light. Jean Luc will see you to your quarters.' Once more the Duke strutted away, this time leaving the room through a different set of doors. Still they waited. Aramis was wandering around the vestibule admiring the portraits of beautiful women that adorned the walls, whilst Porthos paced up and down, never comfortable in such surroundings. Athos simply waited.

'Why are portraits always of beautiful women do you think, mon ami?'Aramis addressed Athos. The man looked up at the portraits looking down upon him and gave a shudder that went unnoticed by the others. The mute, judgemental faces gazing down upon him, were far too reminiscent of a life he had chosen to forget.

'Because, my friend, they are being paid for by wealthy husbands.' Porthos grinned and Aramis sighed. 'So cynical for one so young.'

'Just practical,' Athos retorted. At that point, Jean Luc emerged from one of the doorways and was about to speak when once again a voice interrupted the proceedings.

'Young man, young man!' Athos and the two Musketeers all turned at once. Standing in an open doorway stood a tiny woman. She was dressed as a courtier, draped in the finest satin and an assortment of fine jewellery. Her hair was snowy white and her heart-shaped faced showed lines of age; she looked to be somewhere around her fiftieth year. Though elderly, and obviously not in good health, it was obvious she had once been beautiful. For a second time, she called out, 'Young man, are you deaf?' Aramis and Porthos were too stunned to speak. It was Athos who answered.

'Madam, to whom are you referring?' The woman smiled, and tilted her birdlike head. She looked like a tiny doll, frill upon frill, with the smallest pale face sitting beneath a mountain of white hair, spun like silk.

'Why you! What is all this fuss about?'

'My Lady, the King's Musketeers have bought the Duke an invitation to the Queen's birthday party.' Athos imparted his voice softening. She seemed to consider this statement for a moment before she waved her hand in Athos' direction.

'Come with me, all of you. Come, come.' She turned slowly and, holding onto the hand of her companion, she walked slowly back through the doorway, her spine straight and her head held high.

So slow was her progress, that the Musketeers were behind her in an instant. As she walked across the opulent room, she held her hand out to Athos. Surprised, Athos looked to Aramis and Porthos, both of whom were grinning broadly over her head. With a roll of his eyes he placed the small hand upon his arm and escorted her slowly toward a large chair beside the fire.

Once she was seated, she waved her hand around the room impatiently, 'Sit, sit.' She turned to glare at Aramis and Porthos, who instantly stopped smirking and found themselves seats. She rang a bell rope beside her chair and, when a servant slipped silently into the room, she shouted for wine for her guests. All the time she chattered on without drawing breath.

'The King has relented. I never thought he would. But then why would he? Gaston has been stupid, just like his mother, but I have always loved the boy despite his greed.' She then turned to Athos, and demanded, 'So, young man, tell me the gossip.' If it had been possible for Athos to look more surprised, Porthos and Aramis could not have imagined such an expression. It was as much as the two men could manage not to fall about laughing like small children. Of all the people they knew to spill gossip into the ears of a dowager duchess, Athos would have been the last on their list. Feeling some sympathy for their newly-recovered friend, Aramis began to speak. The woman silenced him in a second.

'Not you, _him_.' She pointed a bony finger in Athos' direction. By now, Porthos was beside himself, whilst Aramis was looking suitable chagrined.

Athos cleared his throat and began to speak. Softly, and keeping his voice low and steady, he began to regale the old woman with small details of the court. How on earth he knew such things was a mystery, but it kept the woman enthralled.

'Rumour has it the Viscount of Marseilles has been forced to sell his hunting pack, as his wife says he spends more time with them than with her.' The old woman giggled into her hand.

'He always was a bore! Not that she was any better. Go on.'

Athos looked at Aramis and Porthos who were listening open-mouthed. With an icy glare, he continued. 'The Duchess of Burgundy spilt a glass of wine down the dress of the Countess of Blois when she saw her wearing a dress made from the same fabric. It is said the dressmaker had to move to Reims to avoid her wrath.' The Dowager was delighted with this tale, and chuckled merrily, but it was clear she was beginning to tire.

'Enough, enough, thank you. Come closer dear boy.' She curled her finger and gesticulated for Athos to come closer. 'Closer, kneel.' Athos obeyed, seemingly not surprised by her request. The old woman placed her hands upon his face and began to feel her way gently around it. As she did, a smile appeared upon her lips. 'Thank you,' she whispered. 'You are not a disappointment. I so feared you might be.' She frowned for a moment. 'How old are you? Not yet thirty?'

'No, your Grace.' Athos did not elaborate upon his answer, and for a minute the blind woman stared vacantly into space, still holding Athos' face in her small hands. She sighed deeply then dropped her hands into her lap.

'Sit, sit.' Picking up a small book from beside her chair, she held it out to Athos. 'Now read me a story. You have a beautiful voice to go with your handsome face.' Resigned now to his fate Athos did not even dare look at his brothers' reactions. He opened the book – a small collection of poetry –and began to read. The light from the fire danced upon the walls as the candles began to dim. The rich quality of his voice made the words mesmerising and no one made a sound. All that could be heard in the room was the warm timbre of the man's voice, occasionally punctuated by the crackling of the logs upon the fire.

Porthos and Aramis listened, fascinated. As Athos read, the big Musketeer felt his eyes begin to droop. Aramis gave a soft smile as he watched Athos quietly close the book; the old lady was fast asleep. He placed it back upon the bedside table and picked up a blanket lying next to her. He unfolded the soft wool and covered her as she slept peacefully, then gestured to Aramis, who in turn shook Porthos. The three men silently left the room.

'Say nothing,' warned Athos in a voice that brooked no argument.

'What would we say, mon ami?' answered Aramis, eyebrows raised in innocence.

'That was brilliant,' snorted Porthos. 'How did ya know that stuff?' It was obvious Porthos was not going to let it go, and Aramis was barely holding his curiosity in check.

Athos sighed. 'I made it up.' The other two Musketeers looked on, incredulous looks on their faces.

'Aramis spoke first. 'You made it up? All of it?'

'Including the one about the Comte and his dogs?' Porthos asked, wide-eyed. Athos nodded seriously, a very small quirk of his lips giving him away. Aramis clapped him on the back.

'That was both kind and amazing. How did you know she would not realise?'

'Well the Comte d' Auvignion died ten years ago, without issue. When I used his name in the first tale and she did not react, I realised nobody had kept her informed for years… I felt sorry for her.'

The two Musketeers nodded their understanding. 'That was well done, my friend,' said Aramis, as he hugged Athos around the shoulders. 'And she is right, mon ami. You do have a beautiful voice.' Porthos snorted once more, and Athos gave them a glare that would have frozen fire. He raised one brow and stated:

'Never again!' both men nodded in earnest, but Athos knew he had not heard the last of the episode.

The room they had been assigned was small but comfortable. Three beds, a blazing fire and a table full of food. More than that, Porthos did not need. Boots off he was stretched out on his bed, feet towards the fire.

'So, who was the old lady?' Porthos asked, a twinkle in his eye. Athos gave him a look before answering.

'Marguerite de Valois, Gaston's godmother.' Porthos pursed his lips. 'Seems she don't get out much.'

'I thought she was a sweetheart and a dragon, all rolled into one. She was once both beautiful and formidable I think,' Aramis surmised. Athos gave a quirk of his brow.

'She handled the pair of you,' he said. Athos smiled as the two men looked sheepish. He rose to pick up his hat. 'It would be a good idea to keep a watch on the Chateau and the stables. We should make sure Gaston does not send a message, or attempt to leave, though in this weather it is unlikely.' From the window they could see more flurries of snow, and the trees were bending over, powerless to resist the strong winds. 'I believe it is my turn.' He gave them a look, and they accepted his suggestion.

'Porthos will take over from you at two o'clock,' Aramis volunteered, and Athos smiled.

'I will be waiting.' His inference was not wasted on the two men. Just as he was about to close the door behind him, Porthos called out.

'Athos!' Athos stopped and looked askance at the big Musketeer.

'Before you go… read me a story?' Both Porthos and Aramis dissolved into peals of laughter, until a large bolster cushion hurtled through the air, catching them both on the head. Athos could still hear the two men laughing as he strode down the corridor, smiling to himself as he shook his head in exasperation.

The night passed without incident. The storm abated in the early hours, and the roads, though snow covered, were passable. They would not be able to take the road back through the forest, for they knew that the Duke would not wish to spend the night in a cave. As a consequence, they would have to travel through large villages or towns, not arriving in Paris until the day before the party; all the better though – it would leave less time for Gaston to do any harm.

The servants had been up for most of the night, and Athos and Aramis had observed the comings and goings, as a ridiculous amount of baggage was loaded onto a coach. The Duke was travelling _light_ , they were told, and would only bring four or five of his entourage with him.

As Athos ran lightly down the stairs to meet up with the two Musketeers, he bumped into a man carrying a small but heavy trunk.

'Pardon monsieur, my apologies,' said Athos. He was surprised when the man glared back at him with something akin to hatred in his eyes. Suddenly realising Athos' astonishment, he smiled back and waved his hand.

'Not at all, it was all my fault, I was not looking.' He concentrated on his feet for a moment, then hurried on his way. Athos shrugged and continued to the hallway, where Porthos and Aramis waited, neither looking too happy.

'Snowin', again. I hate it,' Porthos growled, scowling at the glittering carpet of snow.

'I hate it too,' Aramis concurred. Athos raised a brow and smirked.

'I thought it was beautiful? God's creation?' Aramis frowned.

'That was yesterday. Today God has opened my eyes to its true nature.' Athos snorted and turned with the two men ready to leave.

A small voice beseeched them to wait.

'Monsieur Athos! A minute more of your time if you please.' Athos looked at the two Musketeers with a stare that dared them to make a sound. They looked as innocent as possible before bowing before the Duchess and taking their leave.

'Your Grace,' replied Athos bowing low. The dainty women held out her hand to find Athos' face and he guided her hand to his cheek. The woman smiled. 'Look out for my godson. I love him very much, but that does not mean I do not know the jealousy he feels for his brother. Louis had everything, and Gaston never was one to share, even as a child. See no harm befalls the King.'

Athos removed her tiny hand from his face and held it in both of his before he spoke. 'I give you my word that I will do everything I can to prevent any harm befalling His Majesty.' The small woman nodded.

Her hand still clasping his, she said quietly: 'You know your voice, it reminds me of someone I once knew – many years ago, when I was a girl. He was young too, so noble and dignified. But my father wanted a Duke as a husband for his daughter, nothing else would do. The young man was so angry with me, he thought I should have fought for him… perhaps he was right.' As she spoke, she appeared to be somewhere else, her pale, sightless eyes seeing something he could not. She turned to look at him once more. 'You are not a Musketeer like the other two?' Athos was taken by surprise.

'No, your Grace, I am not.'

'But they listen to you, even though they need not.' Athos considered her statement and puzzled over his reply. Before he could form a response, she let go of his hand. 'You are a good man Monsieur Athos. You have made an old lady very happy.'

'Goodbye your Grace,' he said, bowing before her once more, and after a moment's hesitation he strode after the two Musketeers.

The Duchess dabbed at her eyes and felt her way back along the wooden panelling to her room. 'Goodbye, Olivier. God speed – and God keep you safe.'


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

Athos re-joined the two Musketeers in front of the Château, Gaston having yet to make an appearance. The temperature was freezing once more. The wind, though not as strong as the night before, whipped mercilessly around the waiting men, causing them to shrink inside their warm travelling cloaks, though if they were made to wait much longer, even those would not be sufficient to keep out the bitter chill. The two Musketeers would have been greatly amused had they known that a mere travelling cloak had recently caused somewhat of a dilemma for their Captain, and Athos would have been mortified.

Treville had been beside himself with relief, seeing Athos prepare to depart wearing a thick black cloak. The Captain had pondered on his predicament for hours. Before Athos had returned to the garrison dressed in a well-cut doublet and breeches, he had only worn clothing borrowed from the two Musketeers – who, it had to be said, varied greatly in size. This fact had not been lost on either of them, much to the annoyance of Athos and the amusement of Aramis. But the cloak…

The Captain had been watching the weather. The journey to Orleans would be long and arduous, especially for someone convalescing from injuries such as Athos had received. However, the Musketeer cloak was a distinct part of the regimental uniform, and offering such an item to Athos could have repercussions – not because the man would not make a fine Musketeer, but Treville was sure Athos would refuse such an offer, even if he had made it. The swordsman was too honourable, or stubborn, to sport the garments of a uniform he had not earned. However, that still left the problem of him freezing to death.

And so it was, when Athos led Roger from the stable, hat pulled down and wrapped in his cloak, Treville gave a sigh of relief. Had he considered his predicament seriously for one moment, he would have laughed at the absurdity of a mere cloak causing him such anxiety. Who would imagine that the Captain of the King's Musketeers, would be fretting over whether or not this man, a practical stranger, would be warm enough! But that was just it, Athos did not feel like a stranger. Despite the brevity of their acquaintance, Treville had observed two of his best men willingly fight on behalf of Athos, watching over his injuries, day and night, like long-lost brothers. Though there were occasions when Treville wanted to shake him, the man had the capacity to get under your skin, and somehow Athos had set in motion a train of thought Treville had forsaken many years ago.

His men were important to him and, perhaps with the odd exception, he was proud of them all, and would fight and die alongside any of them. However, the idea of having a family, children of his own, had been abandoned long ago, when he had chosen the life of a soldier. His family had been the army, as now was the regiment – there had been no place for a real family and, resigned to the situation, he knew that the moment had now passed. Unexpectedly, when he looked at Athos, he thought of the son he would never have, and he was not sure how to deal with it.

Servants now scurried down the steps of the Château, placing warming bricks inside the coach. Gaston's arrival was apparently imminent, and not before time, as the party had been sitting in the freezing cold for far too long. Infuriated by the utter arrogance of the man, Athos' stare was matched only by the glacial weather.

At long last, Gaston finally emerged, wearing a conceited expression on his face. He was obviously in no hurry, sauntering down the steps so that he may be admired, until realising the inclemency of the weather, he suddenly increased his pace. Porthos was not known for his forbearance, and the growl he emitted alerted the other two men to his rapidly dwindling patience. Athos stepped in front of the Musketeer, shielding him from the thoughtless Duke, and opened the carriage door. Climbing inside, Gaston sat on the forward-facing bench, whilst his waiting companions passed him a fur rug to place over his knees. Athos closed the door, having received no acknowledgment of his presence.

Finally, the party moved off. Aramis and Porthos took the lead, with Athos and two of Gaston's men bringing up the rear. The company was relatively small by royal standards; inside the coach, beside Gaston, rode Luc de Valois Marquis d' Angoulieme, and the second son of the Duke de Montmorency – Phillipe. Both were a similar age to Gaston, and both showed as much disdain for the rest of the escort as he did. Three others rode alongside Athos and the two Musketeers – armed men, used to fighting.

Aramis eyed the sky above with trepidation, there was a noticeable yellow tinge, which boded ill for the journey ahead. Should there be a further fall of snow, their trip could be delayed for days, and he was not sure which was worse, bringing the Duke late to Louis' party, or being snowed in at some wayside inn with the insufferable man and his entourage.

The Duke's company were making reasonable progress. Once they had reached the main road out of Orleans, they had encountered no problems. The Duke had kept his head down, doing the Musketeers a favour – at least one good thing resulting from the appalling weather. The last thing they needed now was a peevish royal. The two men riding with Athos had spoken little, and when they did it was only to each other. Having grown accustomed to blocking out Aramis'constant banter, Athos did not find it difficult to ignore their chatter. However, there was something bothering him, and he could not think what it was, so he was mildly irritated when one of the men addressed him directly.

'You do not wear the uniform of a Musketeer,' stated the man, who had earlier introduced himself as Renard.

'No,' was Athos' curt reply. Renard shot his fellow soldier a slightly quizzical look and persisted.

'Are you part of the regiment?'

'No,' Athos responded, exhibiting the slightest hesitation. He turned to look at his inquisitor, tilting his head slightly, revealing his features from beneath the brim of his hat. Though he bore the man no particular ill will, neither did he wish to embark in idle chatter. He needed to think.

At the front of the company, Aramis had kept up his usual dialogue, whether anybody answered him or not. Never one to be comfortable with long silences, Porthos was more than happy to listen to him. However, when Aramis paused to take a breath. Porthos took advantage.

'How do you think he's gettin' on back there? Do you think I should relieve him before he talks those soldiers to death?' His face split into a broad grin, and Aramis chuckled.

'I assume all is well. I have not heard the sound of a pistol, so Athos has not shot anyone yet. But you are right, mon ami, it is only a matter of time.' The marksman smiled as Porthos wheeled his horse around and cantered to the rear of the column, arriving just in time to hear the second soldier – who had not been yet introduced to them – ask a question.

'So, who are you then?' Athos raised his eyes to heaven. He found it hard to believe he could possibly have been asked the same question twice in two days. Whereas last time he had found the question too painful to contemplate, this time he was simply annoyed. He didn't know the answer, and right now he didn't care; he had far more important questions careering around in his head. He was just about to frame his cutting response, when Porthos pulled up beside him. Having overheard the question, and observing the look upon Athos face, he managed to intervene before the man could issue his scathing retort.

'Aramis is in need of entertainment, and has requested the pleasure of your company. Seems I'm not as good a listener as you.' He raised his brow and gave Athos a wide smile. Athos realised the man's intent, and acknowledged it with a small nod, along with the subtle twitch of his lips that passed for a smile. Athos spurred on his horse and cantered away toward the head of the delegation, smiling as he heard the big Musketeer ask: 'So, do either of you men enjoy a game of cards?' Athos was not sure if that was a portent for the coming evening or not.

Roger settled into the rhythm of Aramis' horse, and the two men rode side by side, in silence, for several minutes. 'Am I to assume that Porthos' timely arrival was not because you were in particular need of me?' Athos queried, his delivery as droll as usual. Aramis beamed.

'Porthos was afraid you might shoot somebody… if you were pressed.' He added with amusement. Athos twitched.

'They were becoming irksome.' Athos admitted, and Aramis nodded, indicating that he understood.

'I am sure Porthos is regaling them with some spectacular story or other,' laughed the Musketeer.

'They were discussing cards,' Athos imparted, giving nothing away.

'Oh.' Aramis' face fell slightly, and then he shrugged his shoulders. ' _C'est la vie_.' Athos gave the Musketeer a sideways glance and, for once, a genuine smile.

Encouraged, Aramis took the plunge. 'So what is on your mind, mon ami,' he enquired, as casually as he could. Athos appraised the Musketeer, though he did not immediately answer. Aramis bided his time and waited for a reply.

'I am not sure. Something bothers me.' Aramis held back, to see if any further information would be forthcoming, but Athos was staring off into the distance once more.

'Do you think the Duke has been able to make contact with his conspirators since our arrival?' Aramis asked, frowning. Athos snorted:

'Other than the two sitting in the coach with him already, you mean?' Aramis nodded in understanding. Gaston's companions were suspected revolutionists and their arrival at court would be interesting if nothing else. Aramis let the matter drop and rode in silence.

'What about the Duchess?' asked Aramis, watching to see how Athos would react.

' I do not believe she is a danger. She is honestly concerned for the King's welfare, and even urged me to guard his life.' Aramis looked bemused.

'So, not completely taken in by her beloved godson then?' The marksman observed Athos shake his head.

Just then, one of the soldiers rode off to join his colleagues at the rear, and it did not take long for Porthos to return.

'Have you missed me?' he asked, his jolly tones interrupting the two men as they each contemplated the problem in silence.

'Let me think?' Aramis rolled his eyes.

'I bet you haven't been able to get a word in edgeways,' Porthos grinned as he nudged Aramis' shoulder. The Marksman put a woebegone look on his face, hiding his mirth as he did so.

'It is such a shame he chooses to keep that lovely voice to himself, don't you think, mon ami.' Athos stiffened, but the other two men could not help but continue to tease.

'Perhaps he could recite some poetry for us,' suggested Aramis, keeping his face as serious as he could.

'Oh, I don't know, I'd prefer another story,' Porthos added sagely. Reaching the end of his tether Athos interjected.

'I would, but the last time it seemed to have a soporific effect, and I would not wish you to fall from your horses.' His delivery could not have been more arrogant and aloof if he had tried, the two Musketeers dissolving into laughter. Deciding it was time to change the topic of conversation, Athos spoke over the chortling of his two companions.

'We should soon think about stopping; the horses need to rest, and something warm for the party to drink would be a boon.' Though they were travelling along the main road, houses were few and far between, and they would not reach Toury, where they planned to spend the night, until evening. Aramis rode back along the column and informed the driver of the coach and the escort of their intention.

A little further on, the grassland alongside the road flattened, and a small tributary of the river Yonne wended its way through the frosted reeds. The wind had diminished a little, but still the men's faces were frozen and, though only their eyes were exposed to the elements, the chill had begun to seep into their very bones. The coach rolled to a halt in the shelter of a small clump of trees, in an attempt to offer some protection from the elements. Gaston remained in the coach, whilst the driver unhitched the team of horses and walked them down to the river. Porthos built a fire, whilst the rest of the party went about their various tasks. However, they were unaware of the observers, watching them from the trees beyond the road.

The two men had been waiting since the early rays of dawn had emerged above the frozen horizon. It had been a risk to stake their choice on the main road; the party could easily have decided to return using the route the Musketeers had taken to travel from Paris. The men's confidence had slowly dwindled when at last, the blue cloaks of the Musketeer regiment appeared in the distance, and their patience was rewarded. Pistols cocked they readied their horses to follow. When the party made ready to stop and rest, the two men could not believe their good fortune. Grinning as they felt their luck began to turn, they crept as close as they dared. They did not want to miss – they knew they would not get another chance as good as this one.

The water had boiled upon the fire, and Aramis handed around cups of tea to the resting soldiers. Athos strode over to the coach and opened the door.

'Monsieur, gentlemen, there is warm tea to be had by the fire if you would like to partake in refreshment and stretch your legs.' Gaston looked irritated.

'Is it really necessary to stop here in the wilds, instead of waiting until we reach civilisation?' Athos kept his tone level, and spoke as though he was explaining something to a particularly slow child.

'The horses cannot travel the entire distance from the Château to Toury without rest and water. This is a sparsely populated area with very few inns or taverns, and those we may happen upon would not be particularly salubrious.' Athos did not lower his gaze, locking eyes with the sullen man, forcing Gaston to be the first to avert his. When the Duke looked at Athos once more, his features were wary, staring at the man as though seeing Athos for the first time.

'I don't like your tone, Musketeer.' Athos was tempted to disabuse the arrogant upstart, but could not tolerate the prospect of the ensuing conversation once more. Instead he bowed to Gaston, deciding, on this occasion, it was best to yield. Flustered, Gaston dropped the small book he had been gripping in his hands, and both men bent to retrieve the fallen object. When the report from a pistol echoed through the icy air, it took everyone by surprise, not least Gaston and Athos, as it embedded itself in the wood right next to where they had been standing. As a second shot grazed Athos' temple, the swordsman bundled a terrified Gaston back inside.

Athos dropped to his knees, partly from shock, partly in anticipation of the impending pain. However, apart from a sharp and stinging sensation, everything else appeared to be functioning as normal. Aramis and Porthos ran for the copse of trees from where the shots had emanated, Gaston's soldiers forming a rather belated ring around the Duke's coach. Several minutes later, the two Musketeers returned toward the company. Aramis shrugged his shoulders, indicating that their search had been fruitless, while Athos opened the door to check that the men inside were unscathed.

'Is everyone unharmed?' he asked, wasting no time on ceremony or etiquette.

'Someone tried to kill me!' Gaston squeaked, a mixture of fear and fury in his voice. Athos ignored him and cast his eyes over the other occupants, his expression posing the question as he checked each one.

'We are uninjured,' the young Montmorency answered, his tone somewhat less petulant than Gaston's.

'You are bleeding Musketeer,' Gaston shrieked. Athos had almost forgotten, and he reached his gloved hand to his temple looking somewhat astonished to see his bloodied hand.

'It is nothing,' he assured them.

'Do not bleed in the coach,' Gaston ordered, looking aghast at the thought of it. Athos glared, his lack of humility only aggravating Gaston even further. 'You are supposed to protect me! I rather think you would have been pleased if the assassin had succeeded. I must speak to your Captain Treville when we reach Paris. Your insubordination has not gone unnoticed.'

'You are mistaken. I will see that you are brought a warm drink before we depart.' No hint of deference in his voice. With that, he closed the door firmly and walked away, not waiting to be dismissed.

When Athos had taken it upon himself to deal with the Duke, Aramis and Porthos had accepted it readily. Previously, it had been impossible to ignore how, even beaten and wounded, Athos had spoken to the King with confidence. Again, when sitting with the Duchess he did not seem discomfited by his surroundings – yet another indication that Athos was potentially high born; an ordinary man would not fit in so well with the trappings of the Château, or be able to discourse so easily with aristocrats and royalty.

Athos was fuming at Gaston's behaviour – the man was a shallow puppet. As he walked toward the two Musketeers, he tried to ignore the growing thump in his temple. Aramis noticed the blood upon the man's face, and dashed to take a look, receiving only an angry glare and a swat to his hand for his troubles.

'I am fine, it is only a graze,' Athos snarled.

'By a bullet,' Aramis countered. 'Let me look.' For a moment the battle of wills held out, until Athos shrugged and allowed the Musketeer near enough to examine his head. Aramis let out a whistle.

'You were lucky this time, my friend. A fraction to the right…' He didn't need to complete the sentence for his meaning to be clear. 'It needs cleaning, and it really should be stitched, but the groove is too wide. I'm afraid that handsome face will bear a slight scar.' Athos resumed his intolerant stare and Aramis chortled:

'Do not worry, mon ami, the ladies love a scar, and we know how well you tell a story!' Athos rolled his eyes, and rued the day he had ever entered the Château d'Amboise. As Aramis used what was left of the warm water to clean Athos' wound, they discussed precisely what had happened.

'They were good shots,' the marksman declared. 'They were on the other side of the road. If Gaston had not bent down to pick up his book, well there would have been a spare seat at the table.'

'Did you get a shot?' Athos asked. Aramis shook his head.

'There was nothing to shoot at, no sign of anyone at all. We could hear horses in the distance, but they must have been already mounted.'

'Two of 'em,' Porthos added. 'Other than that, nothing.' He looked from Athos to Aramis.

'Do you think it was Bisset?' Aramis had posed the question they were all asking themselves. Athos considered the prospect and frowned.

'He wanted us dead. The intention was to prevent Gaston from receiving the invitation in the first place,' Athos replied. Aramis raised his brows and shrugged.

'Perhaps if they failed, they were under orders to make sure he never arrived.' Porthos nodded.

'Makes sense.' Athos looked thoughtful.

'They would be hunted mercilessly. Even an errant brother is still a brother.' As he uttered the prophetic words, Athos felt his heart contract. He realised that those same words were just as appropriate to his situation. Aramis and Porthos did not miss the desolate expression that passed over Athos' face, if only for a second, before the mask was in its place once more.

'How would the Cardinal explain it away? Why would anyone choose now to assassinate his brother, unless they were aware of the party? Only Richelieu, the King, Treville, and ourselves, were mindful of Louis' intent.' The three men exchanged a look of consternation.

'A good excuse to blame the regiment I fear,' Athos said, airing the view they all shared.

'Then we had better make sure he gets there in one piece,' Porthos declared, the lines of his face set with grim determination. A haughty voice cut through their discussion.

'Musketeer,' said a voice. The three men did not immediately react. 'Musketeer, I am addressing you.'

'I think he's talkin' to you.' Porthos nudged Athos. Athos turned slowly and raised a brow. A part of him knew he was deliberately annoying Gaston, but he didn't seem to be able to help himself.

'Yes, you. Come here.' Gaston slammed the door of the coach to keep out the cold whilst he waited for Athos to obey his command. The swordsman rolled his eyes and sauntered over to the waiting carriage. He opened the door and gave a low bow.

'Monsieur.' Rather than enflame the prince any further, he kept his face as blank as possible.

'Why are we waiting around here? They might return and attack us at any moment. Are you deliberately trying to put me in danger?'

'On the contrary, we were discussing the best course of action to ensure your safe arrival in Paris,' Athos offered, though he put little effort into his apology, if that was how Gaston saw it. The Duke scoffed:

'The best plan of action is to leave now and reach Toury as soon as possible. I want to be comfortable and out of this coach now.' He almost stamped his royal foot, and Athos was seriously tempted to punch the whining man in the face. The thought gave him some pleasure and his lips twitched. Bowing once more, Athos closed the door, deciding nothing he could say would placate the man. In fact, Gaston had been correct on one point – the sooner he was safely ensconced inside four walls, the safer he would be. Or so Athos thought.

Eventually, the party was underway once more, Athos and the two Musketeers resuming their place at the head of the column. The afternoon wore on, and even Aramis had finally run out of anecdotes. Snow began to fall from the leaden sky, the flakes becoming increasingly larger and more plentiful. Soon the landscape disappeared, and only the gaunt and spectral trees stood out, seeming to change position amidst the swirling blizzard.

'How far to Toury?' Porthos shouted, the wind and the scarves the men were wearing around their heads making conversation difficult. Aramis pointed into the swirling snow, though how he could make out anything to point at was a marvel.

'I think I see the Church of Saint-Etienne de Janville, it is in Toury – the steeple is quite fine.' Athos and Porthos exchanged a look. That Aramis could consider the fine architecture of a church under such conditions was somehow reassuring. With their heads down as the snow flurries increased, the men looked up only when it was absolutely necessary. Every now and then, a particularly strong gust of wind would hurl chunks of ice into the riders' eyes, snowflakes settling upon their lashes, making their vision blurred and painful.

The horses were beginning to struggle, occasionally slipping. Athos leant to reassure Roger every now and again, as the stallion showed his dislike of the conditions. Athos' main concern was the carriage. If it were to come off the road, or become stuck in a drift, they would be faced with a very different problem, as finding someone to pull it clear in these circumstances would be nigh on impossible. They struggled on, and it was with huge relief that they saw the first dwellings of Toury appear before them, amidst the curtain of white.

Luckily, they had sent a messenger earlier that morning to secure lodgings, though there was a risk they may also take word elsewhere. However, Gaston was adamant that he would only spend the night in a respectable establishment, and with the worsening weather conditions, riding ahead to ensure a vacancy had been their only choice. Athos was glad now that the spoilt Gaston had got his way, as they would otherwise have been unlikely to find rooms.

As they rode through the town, it was clear that the streets were deserted, not even a beggar in sight. The sign swinging from the inn was one of the most welcome visions the party had ever seen. They rode into the yard and dismounted. The snow here was already several inches thick, reaching over the horses feathered hooves. Having become aware of the party's arrival, the ostler and his lad rushed from the warmth of their brazier and took the horses' reins. Athos was about to lead Roger himself, when a haughty cry carried over the snorting and stamping of the horses.

'Musketeer!' It was clear whom he was addressing. Athos dipped his head and let out a long sigh. His temper was fraying, and he was sure he had frostbite; his fingers and toes were completely numb and his fringe was frozen to his forehead. He lifted his eyes to the sky and, had he had Aramis' faith, would have begged God for the patience not to shoot the little weasel. Instead he straightened up and spoke to Aramis.

'Go inside and ensure everything is ready.' The two Musketeers nodded and hurried inside. Gaston and his party were alighting from the coach, slipping and sliding in their inappropriate footwear. For a brief moment, Athos considered letting them fall, but knew he could not, and holding out his arm he offered his assistance. Gaston looked at the proffered limb as though he found it offensive.

'I will manage, thank you. Why did it take so long, the coach was freezing?' Athos noted that even the young Comte and Montmorency had the decency to look discomfited by Gaston's remarks.

'How unfortunate for you,' Athos could not help himself replying. Before Gaston could respond Aramis reappeared.

'Monsieur, your rooms are ready for you and food is prepared.' Gaston eyed Athos with undisguised dislike, before brushing past him into the warmth of the tavern's interior. Athos watched their retreating backs, then walked away in the opposite direction.

Once Gaston and his retinue were resting in their rooms, where they had requested their supper be served, the two Musketeers headed for a table in front of the blazing fire. Porthos looked around, then nudged Aramis.

'Where is he?' he asked. Puzzled, Aramis scanned the room. He saw that the three soldiers were already tucking into their supper and downing tankards of ale. When it was obvious that Athos was nowhere to be seen, the Musketeers began heading for the exit. At that moment, the door opened, and a particularly strong gust of wind blew a flurry of snowflakes and a gust of ice-cold air into the room. In the doorway stood a traveller. He hesitated for just a moment, before stepping inside the tavern and hurling the door shut against the worsening storm.

After the Musketeers and the royal party had entered the tavern, Athos had checked to ensure their horses were being well looked after, and was happy to see that the stables were warm, with plenty of hay and water. Satisfied, he offered Roger a well-deserved apple, stroked his velvet nose and bid him goodnight. As he braced himself for the cold once more, he thought he noticed a figure dodge between the tavern and an outbuilding. He had no light so it was difficult to be certain; only the glow from inside the inn lit the snow-covered yard, sparkling every now and then, giving a false impression of beauty from something that would surely bring death to some poor souls this night.

Athos tracked where he thought the figure had gone and, as he neared the spot, he could see the outline of footsteps in the thick snow. Booted feet, men, only one set of tracks. He was so absorbed by the trail that he did not hear the figure approaching from behind, the steps muffled by the fresh fall of snow. He was about to enter the dark passageway, when his world went black.


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

She felt her heart beating within her chest, the thudding, rapid and uneven. Every kill, every spurious activity, set the adrenalin thrumming though her veins – but only this man could affect her heart; he was probably the only man who ever had and, although she was reluctant to admit it to herself, he was perhaps the only man who ever would.

Athos lay face-down in the deepening snow drift. Already there was the lightest covering of white upon his dark cloak, and traces of blood upon the virgin snow. It had all been so unexpected. He had appeared amidst the swirling flakes unaware of the danger that awaited him; still that did not explain why she had intervened. Others were about to deliver a judgement she had previously only dreamed of. Perhaps she did not want his demise to be dispensed by another. Revenge would not be half so sweet, if it were not her hand dealing the fatal blow.

She turned and fled from the yard, her cloak swishing along the ground, obliterating any sign of her presence – a ghost in the night. Concealed within the shadows, she risked stopping to watch events unfold. He had not moved. Though she herself was tall for a woman, Athos was taller, and it had been awkward ensuring the blow would be sufficient to render him unconscious – merely stunning him would not have been enough. She could not risk being identified, so the blow had been hard. She shuddered, and her hand flew to the small dagger hidden in her skirts.

If he had turned, would she have killed him? Why didn't she anyway? It would have been so easy – a knife in the back, cut his throat as he lay senseless in the snow. He wasn't a Musketeer, no insignia to suggest he belonged to any regiment of any kind. Just another traveller caught out by the storm, seeking shelter, bludgeoned for his purse. She hissed at her foolishness, she could have made it appear more like robbery, but there had not been time; she was not the only person seeking to do him injury that night. Apparently, Athos was popular with cut-throats – they were practically lining up for him. She should have found that amusing, but he was _hers_ , to kill – or whatever else she decided.

The woman cursed her folly. She should have been far away by now, what was holding her here? She could tell herself it was mere curiosity; who were the two men baiting Athos into the shadows of the yard? She could tell herself she was gathering information on Gaston for the Cardinal. She would be lying, but then she was oh so good at that – just ask the man freezing to death before her eyes. Twice she had seen him now, vulnerable both times. She could have ended it right here, right now, but something stayed her hand. She told herself it was not the time – _more_ lies. She told herself she wanted him to know, to be aware that it was _she_ who was ending his miserable existence. Even _more_ lies. The truth was… but would it be the truth? She could not even believe herself any more.

She could not kill him, though neither could she leave him – not like this – not yet. They were inextricably bound. She knew that when the moment came, she wanted – no needed – them to be face-to-face. Movement in the alleyway disturbed her reverie. A small flicker of light hinted at the presence of steel, as it caught the reflection of moonlight, just for a second. They were coming for him. Her breathing was coming hard, she could not take on two men armed only with a dagger. Where were his two _guard dogs_ when he needed them? Frustrated, she looked around, searching for a way to alert the others to the danger Athos faced. With no other option, she let out a piercing scream, then fled, praying it would be enough.

The still figure had stood impatiently in a poorly-lit corner and waited, his breath so cold it was hardly registering in the freezing air. The Musketeer, or whoever he was, had entered the stables alone, whilst his friends, and the rest of the party, had hurried inside to find shelter, oblivious of any danger. All the watcher had to do, was get his attention. Perhaps he could make a noise, lure him out whilst it was quiet; who knew how long it would be until those pesky Musketeers came sneaking around, checking the perimeter.

'What are you waiting for?' a voice hissed from the rear of the large barn. The man to whom it belonged, sounded pained, but in control.

'He's in the stable, there are others in there. I'm waiting for him to come out.' They had done nothing but wait around in this foul weather for most of the day. The cold was soaking into his very soul, and he couldn't seem to thing straight anymore; how he longed for a good drink and a warm bed. Suddenly, all thoughts of a warm bed vanished, as yet another horse galloped into the empty yard. The ostler emerged, not looking particularly pleased to be dragged away from his warm fire once again. The man said a few words and tossed a coin for the groom's trouble.

The watcher shrank back into the gloom and waited. Tugging open the inn door, the traveller had paused for just a moment before crossing the threshold. For a second, the yard had been bathed in a soft glow, and the watcher had been afraid he would be seen. However, as the door closed, his surroundings were plunged into a darkness so intense, he had to blink to refocus, though he was relieved to be invisible once more.

Almost as soon as the door had closed, Athos strode out of the stable, then stopped. Something had caught his attention – just as it was supposed to. Slowly, he began walking toward the watcher. It was working, he had fallen right into their trap – perfect. A second later, the watcher couldn't believe his eyes when the man suddenly pitched face down into the snow. Warily, he turned to his companion, his expression saying all that needed to be said.

'Now what? ' asked the man giving the orders.

'Dunno, he was followin' me, like you said he would, then he just went down like a stone, just grunted and fell.'

'Well, go and look. One minute it's as quiet as the grave, then suddenly it is like May Day in Paris. Go on!' The man sighed. At this rate, he might as well forget about the drink and a warm bed. He felt his way along the wall, sensing that someone was just around the corner, the slightest hint of scent hanging in the air.

'Just cut his throat before anyone else turns up,' the disembodied voice instructed.

The blade of the dagger emerged purposefully from the alleyway, the assassin following in its wake. All at once, to his horror, the situation once more took an unexpected turn. His heart flew into his mouth, as the terrified screaming of a woman assaulted his ears.

'Damn!' came the voice behind him once more. 'This is a disaster. Get back here, I'm not waiting any longer. We will regroup, and try once more tomorrow. That man has more lives than a cat!'

'He might be dead.' There was a short silence whilst his partner considered the statement.

'If he is, then all to the good, someone else has done our job for us and we will not have to bother. Come on.' Creeping quietly, they left the scene and headed to their tethered horses, too cold to care any longer.

Inside the tavern, Porthos and Aramis had just watched the stranger enter the room, when they heard the scream. One exchanged glance, and the two men were on the move. By the time they reached the yard, both men and the mystery woman were long gone. The Musketeers stood together in the raging blizzard, which was still showing no signs of abating. Having discarded their cloaks, they now stood trembling in the icy onslaught.

'Where do ya think it came from?' Porthos' raised his voice to make himself heard. Seeing no signs of life, Aramis headed toward the stable, the only place he could think that Athos may have gone. Porthos followed. The stalls were silent, apart from the gentle snorting and shuffling from the weary occupants, and inside they found the ostler and his lad huddled silently around the brazier.

'Has anyone come in here since we arrived, man or woman?' Aramis asked. The ostler looked nervous. His job was important to him and he could not afford trouble.

'No monsieur, nobody except the horses.' The lad shuffled slightly. Porthos knelt down so that his eyes were level with the child.

'Bet you've got sharp eyes, yeah?' The boy looked awe-struck by the attentions of the big Musketeer, but nodded anyway. 'You'd notice anyone who came in to see your horses wouldn't ya?' he smiled encouragingly. Again the boy nodded. Taking it slowly, so as not to frighten the lad, Porthos continued, 'Did you see anyone tonight?' The boy gave a swift glance toward the ostler, then gazed into the man's dark eyes, nodding once more.

'I saw 'im come in, he went to see the big black 'orse. He gave 'im an apple.' He looked from one Musketeer to the other, gauging their reactions, and heartened by their smiles he continued: 'I din't see 'er, but I smelt 'er.' Aramis, used to women, understood what he meant straight away.'

'You smelt her perfume?' The boy, who probably didn't know what perfume was, looked slightly confused. 'She smelt nice, like flowers.'

'How long ago?' Porthos asked, urgency now in his voice as his patience began to strain. The boy frowned.

'We played a hand o' cards,' he replied, looking at Porthos in the hope that this meant something to the man. Porthos stood and grinned and, ruffling the boy's hair, he tossed him a coin.

'Good lad!' Porthos and Aramis hurried to Roger's stable. The horse was contentedly chewing hay and snorted slightly at the sight of the two men. There was no sign of Athos, nor a mystery woman, and no sign of a struggle or anything amiss. Aramis gestured toward the door, and they dashed out into the snowy night once more. 'Must have bin about twenty minutes,' the big man explained. Aramis quirked his brow. 'Give or take,' Porthos grinned.

'Would that be give or take a King or Queen?' his friend quipped, all the time scanning the yard for any evidence of Athos or the woman who had screamed.

The door opened once more, and a man staggered out into the snow. Whether he would make it home in his condition was debatable, but it was not their problem. However, the light spilling from the glowing interior was just enough for Aramis to make out a raised mound across the icy yard – what looked like a bundle of rags on the floor, half in the shadows of an outbuilding. He began to stride toward it before breaking into a run – in addition to the rags, he had spotted a booted foot.

The two men knelt on the ground, the mound on the floor now completely covered in white flakes. Aramis reached out, and jumped in surprise as his hand made contact with a body. Though used to the dead, he dreaded turning the inert form over and seeing its face. His heart began to race. He was back in the forest of Savoy, surrounded by the dead, everything still and silent, apart from the feeding crows.

Staring at the still form in horror, Aramis could not move, and the vision before him hardly registered. Realising his friend's dilemma, Porthos took the lead, rolling the figure gently toward his lap. Athos let out no sound as he was raised from his frozen bed of snow, but the movement was enough to rouse Aramis from his reverie.

'Mon dieu, it is Athos.' Aramis fumbled with his gloves, so he could better feel for a pulse. Athos' lips were blue, and his face was almost as pale as the snow upon which he lay. 'Come on, Athos,' Aramis pleaded, as he tried to find a pulse with his frozen hands. Porthos wore an expression of horror and, when Aramis emitted something between a sob and a sigh, he was at a loss to know how to react. It was only when his friend looked up, a weak smile playing around his lips that the big man began to breathe once more.

'Let's get him inside,' Aramis urged. Not waiting for further instructions, Porthos picked Athos up in his arms, and practically ran toward the entrance to the inn. Aramis threw the door open, and the two men and their bundle made a dramatic-looking entrance. The landlord's daughter was just delivering ale to one of the tables when she spotted the prone figure in Porthos' arms.

'Oh my, the poor soul! Bring him into the parlour.' She hurried between the tables and showed them to a small room at the rear of the tavern. 'We keep it for special guests, and with the Duke stayin' an' all, we kept it free. Then he said he wanted supper in 'is room, so here it is, you can use it.' Aramis cleared the top of a wide table and Porthos lay the unconscious figure upon it. As he pulled his hand out from under Athos' head, he noticed the blood upon his glove. Looking at Aramis he rolled his eyes.

'Not again. I'm surprised his brains aren't addled, the amount of time he gets hit on the head. It's a good job he's got a lot of hair!' Despite his bluster, Aramis noticed how the big man fondly swept Athos' hair aside from his face. Whilst Aramis began to divest Athos of his cloak, Porthos stood helplessly beside the table. The man's doublet and clothing were undisturbed and showed no evidence of bullet holes or slashes from a blade. Still, the medic was taking no chances, and soon had the patient down to his shirt, sighing in relief, when he saw that Athos had no signs of damage to his body. Wrapping him in the blankets the girl had provided, he turned and spoke to Porthos.

'Lift him slowly so I can look at his head.' Porthos took Athos in his arms and lifted him gently, holding him steady whilst Aramis began parting his hair. The young girl was still hovering in the corner of the room and took the two men by surprise when she spoke.

'Shall I bring a lamp?' Aramis smiled.

'Thank you that would be most welcome.' She hurried to the medic's side and held the lamp aloft.

' _Merde_ ,' said Aramis, 'now he has two lumps, side by side. I can only hope his skull is as stubborn as the rest of him and has refused to crack. He will have a merciless headache though.' Bemused, the girl looked from one Musketeer to the other, as though she was unsure whether they were friends of this man or not. Porthos noticed her expression and smiled.

'He doesn't like to fuss, or be fussed over. We worry.' The girl beamed in understanding,

'I've three older brothers, I know the sort. I'll go see that your room's ready and the fire is built up.'

As the two men thanked her for her kindness, the patient began to stir.

 _Jasmine… why do I smell jasmine… head... so cold…_ 'Mmm hurts,' groaned Athos. He attempted to lift his hand to his head, but Aramis gently held it down. Glad to see their friend awake, Aramis reassured the man that he was not badly injured.

'You are safe, my friend. It seems whilst we were enjoying the hospitality of the landlord, you were outside making new friends!' Porthos grinned and added to the banter.

'Obviously, you didn't play nice.' Athos frowned as he struggled to remember.

'Though it does seem you managed to find a woman, even in these conditions. I am impressed my friend.' Smiling, Aramis patted his shoulder. Athos tried to push himself up, but his head swam and the thumping inside his head seemed to grow tenfold.

'Whoa, I've gottcha.' Porthos put his arm out to steady Athos, as the man swayed upon his two hands, screwing his eyes tightly shut, as the room began to spin. The landlord's daughter emerged once more, this time bearing a tray of steaming food, and a pitcher of wine. Porthos looked thrilled but, glancing over the tray, Aramis shook his head.

'That all looks wonderful, but might we have some water for our friend?' The girl smiled and nodded, tripping back the way she had come.

They placed their cloaks over the injured man, as he still shivered uncontrollably. Athos closed his eyes and gradually began to feel the warmth from the room ease the cold which gripped his body, the sharp tingling in his feet and hands almost painful. The girl returned with a jug of water and poured a cup. Aramis made to get to his feet, but she waved him away.

'Eat whilst it is warm, you both look frozen too.' Porthos needed no persuading – Athos was not in immediate danger and she was right, the food would only go cold. The girl raised the cup and gently tapped Athos on the shoulder. He opened his eyes and they grew wide as he registered the landlord's daughter standing by his side. Aramis and Porthos could not hide their mirth at the man's expression – he hated their ministrations, but that of a stranger… Had he been holding the cup of water, Aramis was quite sure that Athos would have complained bitterly over its contents, but as it was, he accepted the liquid meekly and behaved like a perfect gentleman. The girl smiled shyly as he thanked her, curtsying daintily before she left.

'She didn't curtsy to us,' Porthos grumbled.

'No, she didn't,' the other Musketeer replied thoughtfully. 'It's a wise landlord and his family who recognise the quality of their patrons,' he mused, almost to himself. Athos had fallen back to sleep, and Aramis immediately jumped up to check that the man was still breathing. He was only too aware that head injuries could be fatal, and this was the second one that the swordsman had suffered in three days. Having aten their fill, the men decided to take the wine back to their room. It had been a long and difficult day, and they all needed their rest, particularly Athos. The man would have to ride tomorrow, there was no other option. The Musketeers rose from the table and stood looking at the sleeping man.

'Should I carry him?' Porthos boomed, never one to moderate the volume of his voice.

'Indeed, you should not,' came the sleepy, but icy, retort. Athos carefully opened his eyes and gave Porthos his now famous stare.

The big Musketeer grinned. 'You know that don't work with me don'tcha?' Athos quirked his brow, and with a withering glance, made to swing his legs from the table. A groan escaped his lips and his hand flew to the back of his head.

'That went well for ya,' Porthos admonished. 'Now shall we do it my way?'

'No!' Athos declared, with a voice that threatened harm to any who tried to touch him, though he added: 'If you would simply assist me... I would be grateful.' Athos admitting he needed their help was, in itself, a major victory for the two Musketeers.

Slowly, and with the strong arms of Aramis and Porthos, Athos made it to the room designated to the three men, making no acknowledgment of the fact that they would once more be sharing in close proximity. As soon as they had removed his boots and laid him gently upon the bed, Athos' eyes were closed, and his breathing became slow and even.

'That was easy,' Porthos stated, looking pleased, but Aramis seemed less delighted.

'Make the most of it, my friend, for I doubt he will be so affable tomorrow.' The two Musketeers frowned at the very thought: a disgruntled Athos with a pounding headache; dealing with a pithy Gaston. It did not fill either of them with joy.

'I must check all is well with the royal party,' Aramis informed his friend. 'And best advise the landlord that we will need an early call in the morrow.' Porthos nodded, and headed for the door. When both men returned a few minutes later, they were slightly alarmed to find the landlord's daughter standing at Athos' bedside. Automatically, their hands went to their weapons – after all there had been a woman outside when Athos was attacked. Hearing the two men enter, she turned suddenly, a blush creeping over her cheeks.

'I'm sorry, I just came to see if you needed anything, and he was alone.' She looked back at Athos then, turning to the two men, she whispered shyly:

'He's so 'andsome… not that you two gentlemen aint,' she added quickly. Aramis preened his beard and Porthos grinned. 'But he's got such pretty eyes.' She gave the sleeping Athos one last look before she turned to leave. 'Well, if you gentlemen have everything you need, I'll be off. I suppose you will want to leave early.' She sounded rather disappointed, but then, with a twinkle in her eye, she added, 'Though you may not be able to leave at all.' With a grin she opened the door, but Aramis placed a hand upon the girl's arm to halt her departure.

'Did you by any chance go outside tonight, mademoiselle, to fetch supplies or visit the stables?' The girl thought for a moment.

'No. Joseph and his lad had eaten earlier, so there was no reason to go out in that weather. Why do you ask?' She looked slightly nervous, especially as it was clear to her that their friend had received an injury of some kind.

'We heard a woman scream, and thought we ought to make sure it was not you.' Aramis explained, trying to look gallant. The girl appeared to have accepted his explanation.

'Well it was not me. Perhaps it was foxes, there's a lot of them round here, make an awful noise they do.' With that she smiled and left.

'No curtsy,' Porthos smiled. Aramis grinned broadly and gestured toward Athos' bed.

'But then you don't have pretty eyes, mon ami.' Porthos looked hurt.

'I always thought my eyes wos my best bit.' Aramis laughed.

'Neither do we have beautiful voices.' The two men laughed as quietly as their mirth would allow.

'Shall we tell 'im?' Porthos asked, eyes full of glee.

'Of course not, mon ami, of course not,' Aramis answered, looking equally mischievous. Porthos guffawed and the two men made ready to settle down for the night.

Walking over to the window, Aramis sipped at his glass of wine. He had forgotten all about the weather but, as he stared out into the night, his concern for tomorrow's journey grew. He could make out nothing but white hummocks and twirling snow – God help them if they had to spend time stuck here with Gaston and his cronies, Athos would most certainly kill him, especially now. He would wait until morning – then consider their options. It suddenly occurred to Aramis that he had not made a decision regarding the journey or their agenda since Athos had been rescued. Though the man had not told them what to do exactly, they had merely followed what he suggested, as it made sense, and he always delivered his recommendations with such confidence. Strange.

In the early hours, Aramis was startled out of his sleep by a small cry. He was soon out of bed and trying to work out where he was, and who had cried out. When he heard a whimper from Athos' bed, he immediately became aware of his surroundings and rushed to the man's side. Though there was sweat upon Athos' brow, the medic did not think he was starting with a fever. Athos threw his hand up to ward off an unseen adversary and groaned once more. Aramis placed his hand upon his friend's head and whispered quietly in his ear.

'You are safe, my friend. It is I, Aramis. Wake up.' He was slightly alarmed when he recalled the last time he had intervened amidst one of Athos' nightmares and the man had nearly strangled him. With the blow Athos had received to the head, he really did not want Porthos to have to knock him out again. Luckily, this time Athos awoke quietly. He focused upon Aramis and the medic saw relief settle upon his alarmed features.

'They are gone, mon ami. Whoever they are, they cannot hurt you now.' Athos reached out both hands and fisted them in the medic's shirt. It was obvious that he was still gripped by the fear of his visions when he spoke, his voice low and dejected.

'They visit me in my dreams, tormenting me for my failures – past, present and those that I fear will be inevitable.' Aramis was appalled at the desolation in his friend's voice.

'It is the future you need to look to, brother, do not dwell upon your torment from the past. They are only nightmares, my friend. When the visions that visit us during the darkened hours are still present when dawn breaks, then we should be truly afraid.' Athos stared at the man as though his words were his last lifeline. Then he nodded, his face becoming blank once more, his emotions hidden behind whatever defences he had built to keep himself sane.

'I am sorry.' He looked at Aramis, pain clearly reflected in his expression.

'You have nothing to be sorry for. I am afraid I have no way of making you a potion, you will need to chew this, it is feverfew, and it will help your head.' Athos eyed with trepidation the plant Aramis held in his hand. Lifting it to his mouth he grimaced as he chewed it slowly. Aramis grinned and shrugged his shoulders in apology.

'This is your retribution?' Athos asked, wrinkling his nose in distaste. Aramis chuckled and patted him on the arm.

'Try and sleep. It will be an … interesting day tomorrow.' Athos simply huffed and quirked his brow, but he lay down once more and closed his eyes. Aramis waited until the man's breathing evened out, before he too lay down to sleep. Sighing deeply, he closed his eyes and thanked God his own demons had the decency to keep away these days, only bothering him when he no longer had the willpower to control them. He shivered as he recalled Athos lying in the snow, and prayed that tonight his willpower would not fail him.


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

As dawn broke over the snowy landscape, Athos raised himself gingerly and stood by the side of his bed. The two Musketeers were nowhere to be seen. Athos was not particularly worried, as Aramis' hat lay upon his bed and he would not have gone far without it. Walking steadily over to the window, Athos let out a low groan. He was used to waking with a bad hangover, in fact he still found it hard to believe it when he awoke without one, but this morning, a hangover would indeed have been preferable. His head hammered and his eyes ached, a stabbing pain, elicited by the sunlight streaming through the small window; even his shoulders and neck seemed to throb.

He attempted to look outside, wanting to assess the state of the weather, but the light made him flinch and he had to shield his eyes, causing his head to pound twice as hard. Cautiously, he reached out with one hand and felt his way back toward the bed, the other remaining over his sensitive eyes. On route he found his hat and pulled it down firmly upon his head, shielding himself from the painful glare.

And so it was that Aramis and Porthos found him sitting on the edge of the bed, hat pulled down and his head in his hands. They exchanged worried glances, and Aramis discarded the tray he was carrying and knelt in front Athos.

'Athos, my friend, are you alright?' As the words left his mouth, he knew it had been a futile question, so was quite prepared for the answer he received.

'I am fine.' Athos lifted his head – he looked so pitiful Aramis almost laughed. When the bleak expression hardened, and Athos managed a magnificent stare, Aramis felt somewhat reassured.

'Of course you are, mon ami. You have been bludgeoned over the head twice in three days and you are perfectly fine.' This time it was Aramis' turn to look cross. Unrepentant, Athos merely grunted and resumed holding his head in his hands. Speaking more softly, the medic placed his hand upon his friend's shoulder.

'Here, drink this. You will find it more pleasant than the feverfew of last night, and it will ease your headache. The one you haven't got.' He raised his eyebrows defying the man to refuse. Athos looked up and twitched his lips.

'Thank you.' He took the drink and after a cursory sip, drank the rest down in one go. Aramis looked disconcerted.

'Either that tasted better than I thought, or your head _really_ hurts.' Athos' expression told the Musketeer all he needed to know. What Athos was not prepared to admit to, were the waves of nausea that washed over him every time he moved, or the fact that his vision was blurred – only the man kneeling before him having any clarity at all. 'Perhaps it is time you told us what happened.' Athos looked toward the window and Porthos interrupted.

'His _Selfishness_ , is still asleep. Anyway, I'm not sure we'll be going anywhere this mornin'.' He nodded toward the window and Athos made to stand.

'Oh no, mon ami, you are going nowhere. You will eat first and then we will see how you fare. There is the small matter of a woman's scream and your knock on the head.' Athos looked bemused, but took the plate Aramis passed him as though he were unaware of the gesture.

'What woman?' The smell of jasmine invaded his memory again and he looked unsettled. He moved the food around upon his plate but ate nothing.

'What is it, mon ami? What do you remember?' Athos sat in silence. What was he supposed to say? _I smelt the perfume of my dead wife._ Struggling with his inadequacies, Athos took a deep breath.

'I checked on the horses, gave Roger an apple... came out into the yard. A light… something caught my eye… I walked toward it… then… nothing.' He looked up at the two Musketeers and shrugged his shoulders. 'I am sorry, I saw nothing, just the impression of something, or someone in the shadows. Then I must have been struck from behind.' The two Musketeers nodded.

'So, who screamed?' Porthos asked.

'Perhaps it was someone passing.' Aramis offered, though he realised it did not sound plausible given the weather conditions. Athos had been deep in thought.

'Whoever hit me, why did they not kill me?'

'You were probably not their target, you may have simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time,' Aramis suggested. He glared at Athos' plate, indicating that he was aware it remained untouched. Athos was about to nibble a piece of cheese when realisation hit him.

'Gaston!' Athos growled. Once more he tried to rise, and this time managed to get to his feet, though he swayed dangerously. Aramis held out his hand, but Athos batted it away.

'I am fine. I will have to ride soon, and I need to be ready. We need to check the Duke is alright.' Porthos was stood at the window and was shaking his head.

'Already done, he's fine. No coach will be leaving any time soon in this weather.' He stared out at the town below as the other two joined him at the window. Athos sighed in frustration. He didn't need perfect vision to realise the implications of the blanket of snow now covering the town and beyond.

'It is a complete white out. Even the horses will struggle in this, so there is no way a coach will make it through.' Frustrated, Athos ran his hand through his hair, wincing as it came into contact with his injury.

'Let me take a look at your head now that it is daylight,' Aramis demanded. Athos glowered at the Musketeer, but the determination upon the medic's face made him acquiesce, albeit reluctantly.

'Damn, I should have stitched it last night, but the light was weak, and I could not see how deep the gash was.' Looking at Athos he wagged his finger at the swordsman. 'If you had not so much hair I would have seen better.' Athos raised a brow in amusement.

'I apologise, but I am not cutting it simply to aid your future medical assessments.' Aramis held his stare and then began to laugh, he shook his head, amused at his own absurdity. Then his face grew concerned once more.

'What future assessments? You will not receive another blow to the head until we reach Paris, and that is an order!' This time it was Porthos who let out a bellow of laughter, and even Athos gave the ghost of a smile before he responded.

'Then I am allowed such an injury once we return?' His sarcastic retort had both Musketeers laughing and he shook his head at the men's mirth, though he did allow himself a smile of sorts. However, Aramis' mood quickly changed from levity to one of concern, as he narrowed his eyes and glanced once more at the untouched food upon Athos' plate.

'I will injure you myself if you do not eat something. You consume hardly enough to keep a small child alive, let alone a stubborn man – particularly one who manages to subject himself to such injuries as yours on a frighteningly regular basis.' Athos managed to look a little contrite as he picked up a chunk of cheese and nibbled it slowly. The very thought of food made his delicate stomach recoil. Aramis sighed when, after managing the cheese and an apple, Athos pushed the plate away with a look that distinctly said _no more_.

In a house not far from the tavern. The ghost from the night before was making a rapid toilet; it would be prudent for her to leave before the rest of the household awoke. She had needed a place to stay out of the storm, somewhere she could come and go without questions being asked. The inn had been out of the question, Athos would have noticed her immediately – and that was unthinkable. No, she needed somewhere nobody would know she had ever been – or at least not know who she was; somewhere she could do all she needed to and leave no trace. Well, not entirely – after all, there was the small matter of the corpse lying in the bed of the room next door.

The wealthy merchant had been ripe for the picking. After lurking in the shadows of an empty building, she had watched him stable his expensive horse before tipping the ostler handsomely. Mounting quickly, she urged her mare out into the blizzard, slowly stalking her unsuspecting prey. When she was level with the man, she gave her mount a sharp prick from a hair pin, just enough for it to swerve suddenly, snorting and stamping sideways. This was the perfect excuse for the mare's rider to slip gracefully to the ground, falling at the man's feet. Passers-by, though there were relatively few, caught hold of the riderless horse, as the merchant rushed to the aid of the helpless woman in the snow. Ensuring her hood hid her features from prying eyes, she looked up at him, snowflakes settling in her dark curls like small flowers. Her green eyes appeared unfocused and she parted her lips enough to give the smallest of moans. Instantly the man had his arm around her and attempted to help her up.

'Madam, are you injured? Can you stand?' It was all she could do to put any effort into her performance. For some reason, her heart was not in it and she determined that the charade would have to be short-lived. She let the man help her to her feet before she swooned into his arms. He was well built, though she suspected most of that was fat. Indeed, she was taking a chance that he would be able to catch her, rather than allowing her to fall back into the snow. It was not really such a great risk – after all, what man would let anyone, let alone a beautiful woman, think him incapable of picking her up in his arms, even if it broke his back. She smiled to herself, thinking that if he did break his back, he would probably be doing her a great favour. She kept her eyes closed as she listened to him issuing a string of instructions.

'Take the horse to my stable down the road. You, go and knock on the door over there, and warn them I am bringing an injured lady to the house.' She held her breath. If there was a woman in residence, then all of this would have been in vain. Still, in her line of work, taking risks was inevitable, she would simply have to adapt. But oh, how she much preferred a swift knife in the back, dealt in the shadows of some dark alley, to this prolonged drama.

She felt the man carry her up a small set of steps, his wheezing breath telling of the effort involved. Sharp clipping of boots upon a marble floor confirming they were inside. The biting wind had ceased, and the house was warm. A sharp thud sounded, as presumably a door was kicked open, and then she found herself rather unceremoniously dumped upon a sofa of some kind. A soft groan and the obvious attempt to control his breathing only reinforced her opinion of her rescuer's fortitude. Not a man like Athos, who had picked her up often and carried her to their bed as though she had weighed no more than a feather. Angry with herself, she forced her mind back to the matter in hand, as that was not a comparison she cared to dwell upon. She allowed her eyes to flutter open and raised her hand to where her heart would be had she still believed she owned such a thing.

'Where am I? What happened?' The man knelt at her side and took her limp hand in his.

'Madam, you were thrown from your horse and fainted. My name is Phillipe Arnaud, you are in my home.' The woman parted her lips and slid her tongue over them, managing a weak smile.

'Monsieur, you are too kind, I am so sorry to be a burden. I was on my way to visit my ill sister in a village not far from here, when my carriage became stuck in the snow. Foolishly, I believed I could make it on horseback whilst the carriage was being freed.' She slumped back into the cushions as though the effort of speaking had been too much. Her rescuer jumped up, and dashing to the fireplace he pulled on the bell rope to summon attention. A footman responded almost immediately, rushing off to bring the requested wine. She watched events unfold from half open eyes, keeping her head turned so as to avoid any chance of future description, sighing heavily as the man returned to her side. Blinking slowly, she attempted to sit up.

'Now, my dear, are you sure that is a good idea?' he asked. His face, still flushed from his recent exertion, was now full of concern. She batted her lashes and asked the question uppermost in her mind.

'I must leave, what will your wife think of me?' The man smiled a little sadly.

'My wife passed on some years ago. There is just me in the house now.' She narrowed her green eyes and practically purred. Patting his hand, she glanced from under her soft fringe and gave her most beguiling smile.

'How terrible for you. But how lucky for me.' The man preened at such attention from this beautiful woman – if only he knew how _un_ lucky it would be for him.

Now she needed to move quickly. She had managed to persuade Aranaud to give his staff the night off, promising an evening of _entertainment_ he would enjoy. Fortunately, she had not had to fulfil her promise. He had been so keen, that he had undressed before she had even unlaced her bodice and, enticing him onto his stomach, she had slit his throat before he had any idea of what was happening. At least, she mused, the man had died in a state of eager anticipation!

Wiping the knife upon the sheets, she secreted it once more within the folds of her gown –she didn't doubt that she would have use for it again. She locked the door, not wishing to take any chances, before donning her cloak and slipping out into the blizzard once more.

As she pulled on her gloves, she checked that she had left no trace. The events of the night before were thrumming through her mind. Her thoughts were not of the man she had killed in cold blood, he was already forgotten, but not so the one she had saved. She had needed to establish what had gone wrong. Having received no word from Bisset, she had been annoyed at first. When he had not kept the designated meeting to claim the other half of his money, her annoyance turned to anger. He had failed in his attempt to halt the delivery of the invitation, of that much she was certain, as a man like that would have been quick to claim his payment had he been successful. She had been forced to reconsider the current state of play and think on her feet.

And so she had been confronted with a second dilemma: allow Athos to be lured to his potential demise, or save him? She still struggled with the logic of her solution. That she still loved him was ridiculous, it had simply been bad timing. If she kept telling herself this, surely eventually she would believe it. Still she was furious. She had dragged herself up from the gutter, she had endured endless pawing and misery to bring herself to that moment. The moment she had met _him._ She had thought herself immune to any man's attentions, she believed her heart was safe. Then _he_ came. He took her heart and locked it with his own, in a place where they were both destined to remain, cold and broken, together for eternity.

A noise from outside brought her back to the present. She lifted a perfume bottle from the dresser, the room had obviously belonged to his dead wife. Jasmine, and expensive, like the scent Athos had bought her when they had first met, not like the cheap oil she was forced to rely upon now. Smiling, she dropped the bottle into her bag. She gently caressed the lid of a heavy wooden box; lifting it, her feline smile grew wider as the contents sparkled in the early morning light. Shrugging her slim shoulders, she scooped the jewels out of their velvet beds, and added them to the bag she held upon her arm. It would be a shame to waste them; after all, their mistress – like her husband – was now cold and dead. With a last glance about the room, she sashayed down the corridor, gliding down the staircase like the spectre she was, before disappearing out into the early dawn. All that remained was the faint trace of Jasmine and that, like her, would have evaporated long before anyone discovered she was gone.

The inn had awoken, and the room downstairs was full of guests breaking their fast. Gaston and his party had once more requested to take theirs in their room, leaving Athos and the Musketeers relieved to have even a short respite from his constant whining. When the man himself appeared at the foot of the stairs with his retinue, dressed to leave, the three men looked astonished. Athos quickly regained his composure and stepped forward.

'Monsieur, I hope you spent a comfortable night?' the swordsman asked civilly. Gaston sneered:

'Comfortable? This is a wayside inn, how is one supposed to find comfort in such an establishment?' Though angry and embarrassed by the man's inconsiderate remark, Athos showed no sign. He kept his contempt for the man hidden, and managed a polite, if rather condescending, response.

'That is indeed unfortunate, for the weather excludes any possibility for travel this morning, and possibly for the rest of the day.' He kept his features as blank as possible. It was enough that his tone lacked sufficient deference a man such as Gaston expected from a lowly Musketeer, but then, as everyone kept telling him, he was not a Musketeer.

Gaston's features darkened, a red tinge suffusing his petulant features.

'We will travel this morning. I insist!' And this time he really did stamp his royal foot – though at least now the said foot was suitably booted. Together, the three men raised their heads, _all_ wearing the same grim expression. Once again, Athos responded first.

'I am afraid it is out of the question.' His words, though softly spoken, held the usual hint of steel, enough to advise most men to back away. Of course, Gaston was too proud, or too stupid to pay attention.

'I am the King's brother, and I emphatically insist! I will attend my sister-in-law's birthday party, or I will have your head!' He spoke mainly to Athos, but it was clear that his warning was also aimed at the two Musketeers. The next question was of course long overdue. The previous day, Athos had worn his cloak concealing his lack of Musketeer insignia. Now, without it, it was obvious he did not sport the familiar pauldron upon his shoulder, and Gaston, despite his self-centred lifestyle, was not ignorant of such requirements. Frowning, he stared at Athos will ill-disguised distaste.

'Why do you not wear the regimental pauldron? Are you not a Musketeer?' Athos froze, this was not what he needed right now – he was fighting to hold on to the contents of his stomach, his head still pounded, despite the potion Aramis had given him, and Gaston was merely a blurred image dancing in front of his sensitive eyes. Despite his own mantra, he could feel his patience eroding with every word the idiot muttered. The two Musketeers braced themselves, and for the first time Aramis chided himself for allowing Athos to come to Gaston's attention at all. Porthos, always succinct whispered in his friend's ear.

'Uh-oh, he's for it now! Whadda we do?' He had not taken his eyes from Gaston's face, his hand hovering over the hilt of his sword, only hoping to God, he would not have to draw it. He closed his eyes and prayed that Aramis could use his silky charm to talk their way out of it, for all their sakes. As if in answer to Porthos' prayer, the marksman cleared his throat and took a step forward. With his most amiable smile, he gave a low bow before addressing the Duke.

'Monsieur, I am Aramis of the King's Musketeers.' Indicating Porthos to his right, he also introduced the other man, if only to give himself another couple of moments to think. Gaston stared at the two men as though he had never seen either of them before. Taking a deep breath Aramis continued, pleading with God for inspiration.

'Monsieur Athos is the garrison's sword master, the finest swordsman in all of France. With the Queen's party imminent, the garrison is exceptionally busy escorting important personages – though less important than yourself of course – to the palace. The Captain thought his exceptional sword skills would provide extra protection to such an eminent guest. Monsieur Athos has tutored in many important households, and is far more used to dealing with high-born gentlemen than us mere soldiers. That is why he offered to carry out all discourse on our behalf.' He smiled at Gaston, at the same time praying to God he had done enough. Porthos stood in amazement, trying not to laugh out loud at his friend's self-defacement, as well as the aggrandisement of Athos. _Best swordsman in all of France_ , he was not going to like that. He clenched his fists in concentration and awaited Gaston's explosion.

Athos also had his fists clenched, though for very different reasons. His stomach was doing dreadful things, and the words issuing forth from Aramis' mouth could not have been worse. _Best swordsman in all of France_? Statements like that were usually a red rag to a bull to men like Gaston, and he prayed he would not expect proof. As to working with high born families, it would be amusing if they had only known the truth. So he stood in front of the conceited prince and awaited his fate. When Gaston finally spoke, and for the first time exhibited traits similar to his brother.

His face stretched into an almost girlish grin. 'The best swordsman in all of France? Well I suppose I should be flattered. Indeed, I shall be most disappointed now if I do not have the opportunity to witness these skills first-hand before we arrive in Paris. You must tell me, Monsieur Athos, to whom you have passed on your skills. But now we must leave.' His voice hardened and his eyes narrowed. 'For I would hate to be late, and have to reveal to my brother how Captain Treville sent a mere sword master to escort me to Paris.' He smirked in victory, knowing the men would not now be able to refuse his request.

Giving a low bow, Athos suddenly left the room. Aramis was still stunned that his speech had gained them some time. Though they would have to make some show of leaving, hopefully the idiot would see for himself just how futile such a journey would be. Gaston turned and flounced back up the stairs, issuing a parting shot.

'Be ready to leave when I return.' Aramis hoped he would not return for a very long time.

The two Musketeers exchanged glances of relief, as well as concern at Athos' abrupt departure. After checking the private parlour and having no luck, they raced up to their room, taking the stairs two at a time. Upon reaching the door, they heard the unmistakable sound of retching coming from inside. Wasting no time, Aramis barged into the room, and knelt next to the figure curled beside the chamber pot. Athos' face was beaded in sweat and his skin was clammy. He groaned as Aramis touched his brow, and attempted to pull away. But it was a half-hearted attempt, and when Aramis refused to move, Athos actually leant into the Musketeer's shoulder. Shaking his head in frustration, Aramis asked:

'And just how long have you felt like this? I do not believe it was Gaston's idiocy that made you sick. And remember before you answer, Musketeers' rules!' Athos wasn't sure he _could_ answer. As he opened his mouth, his body confirmed his suspicions. His stomach heaved again, and he doubled up over the pot, retching violently. As he had only nibbled apples and cheese since eating at the Château the night before, there was now nothing left in his stomach, and the dry retching was almost more painful than if there had been something to expel.

When Athos had finished, he leant back upon the Musketeer's shoulder – a fact that did not go unnoticed, and both Porthos and Aramis shared a expression of alarm. Not at any moment following his treatment in the Chatelet, nor after the flogging, had he shown such need for comfort. If he needed it now, he must feel very bad indeed, and with Gaston's earlier declaration, Athos' timing could not have been worse.

Gaston knew nothing about the events of the previous evening. If they were to tell him, he would only panic, giving them no chance of persuading the man to spend another night at the inn. Porthos passed the medic a damp cloth and knelt on the other side of Athos. As Aramis wiped the man's face, Athos attempted to speak.

'Mm, better now, thank you.' As he pulled away from Aramis and made to stand up, Porthos stepped forward and held him down.

'You really don't want me ta hit ya, now do you?' Both Athos and Aramis looked at the big Musketeer with horror, and Porthos had the decency to raise both his hands and apologise. 'I'm only jokin', but you ain't goin' nowhere,' he said, jabbing a finger at Athos. Shrugging his shoulders, Athos shifted himself so that his back was to the edge of the bed, and stretched out his legs, the two Musketeers mirroring the position on either side of him. Aramis held up two fingers in front of Athos' eyes.

'Honestly now, how many fingers am I holding up?' Athos thought about lying, but his honour won out. Musketeers' rules, he had promised. He attempted to raise a brow, but the effort hurt his head; instead he managed only a scowl as he composed his answer.

'Two fingers, you are practically poking them in my eyes. Honestly? I cannot see your face.' He hung his head, as if the admission had somehow diminished him, if only in his own eyes. Aramis let out a hiss, his anger apparent.

'And you would have got on your horse and said nothing?' Athos looked up, but not directly at the medic.

'We were not travelling.' Aramis stood now and began pacing the floor.

'Don't try that one. You would have got on that horse if the weather had not been against us. I know it, you know it, and even your horse knows it!' Athos and Porthos looked up at the irate Aramis, and all at once the two Musketeers burst out laughing, while, Athos, as was his wont, managed a snort and a slight grin. Aramis ceased laughing and smiled. 'Perhaps I should confer with Roger next time, maybe he can talk some sense into you.' Suddenly there was an urgent knocking upon the door. Aramis pulled it open and the landlord's daughter practically fell into the room.

'I apologise, Lily.' Aramis bowed. He had learned her name as he collected their breakfast. She smiled, a grin that widened when she noticed Athos, who was now standing too. She blushed slightly and looked away, back at the man still holding the door.

'He's downstairs and causing such a ruckus. Demanding to know why you ain't ready, and shouting for his carriage. Dad tried to talk to 'im but he shoved 'im outta the way.' She looked scared. To the Musketeers' surprise, Athos pushed passed them and, bowing politely, gestured to the girl.

'Please, after you, mademoiselle.' It was the first time she had seen the man awake and, on his feet,, and it was obviously a sight that delighted her, for she giggled and led him down the passage. Aramis collected his hat and belongings, smirking to his friend as they, too, followed.

'Pretty eyes!' he grinned, winking at Porthos. The big Musketeer guffawed, reminding himself that, at a more appropriate time, he must impart that nugget to Athos. Probably on an occasion when he was at his most insufferable.


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21

Descending into the room below, Athos could not believe his eyes. Gaston held one of his soldiers pinned against the wall, whilst his two friends had drawn their swords against the other two. Not quite knowing what to do, the poor landlord hovered nervously, while the remaining guests had made a rapid exit, and were nowhere to be seen. Apart, that is, from one man who had not moved, and merely sat in the furthest corner of the room minding his own business.

He was the traveller who had arrived the night before, just as a woman had been heard screaming outside the tavern. His face was hidden by his hat, as it had been the previous night. As he was taking no part in the current drama, Athos mentally dismissed him, though the image gnawed away at something hidden deep within his memory. Turning to the girl at his side, who to his surprise was now holding on to his arm, he spoke quietly.

'Lily?' She looked up and nodded at him, her eyes large with fear. 'Go into the kitchen and stay there until your father comes to tell you otherwise.' Gently he removed the girl's hand from his arm and, with one last glance at her father, the girl scurried toward the kitchen, the main focus of her attention now upon the spot where Athos had touched her hand!

The two Musketeers stood upon the bottom step, behind the swordsman, and waited. Athos walked slowly toward the stand-off. Gaston and his friends turned as one to see who approached, but not the soldiers – their attention was trained upon the swords at their throats.

'Gentleman,' Athos drawled, 'what appears to be the problem?' Gaston turned toward Athos, whilst continuing to keep the soldier pinned to the wall. Athos was sure that the soldier would easily be able to overwhelm the Duke in an instant, but then he probably wanted to keep his head! After all, Gaston _was_ the King's brother.

'These men refuse to do my bidding!' Gaston snarled, rage emanating from every pore. Athos began to wonder if Gaston was not just a little unhinged.

'And what did you bid them do, Monsieur?' Athos persisted, keeping his tone level and non-committal.

'To prepare their mounts, and ready the carriage to leave. Just as I told you. But you were not ready either.' He spat the final words, glaring at the swordsman; though he quietened down just a little having taken a quick glance at Athos' sword.

Aramis noticed Gaston's hesitation and risked a brief smile. Perhaps his description of Athos as being _the best swordsman in all of France_ might have its advantages after all.

Athos needed to end this, and not wishing to enrage the unstable Gaston any further, he nodded. Perhaps it was time to venture outside. Surely when Gaston saw the drifts for himself he would have to admit defeat.

'Then let us begin.' He gestured for the men to lead the way, his inference that Gaston should let the soldiers be, quite clear. Gaston turned with a flurry and opened the door. The wind had dropped considerably, and his two companions sheathed their weapons, following him out into the snow. As Athos walked past, he eyed the three soldiers, all of whom nodded their thanks, although their expressions suggested that he, too, was mad, if he planned to travel in this weather.

Once outside, Athos tugged his travelling cloak around him once more, and hoped their foray into the inclement morning would be brief. In the bright sunshine, the thick black wool stood out against the shimmering white of the snow, the blue cloaks of the Musketeer flanking him on either side. Athos spoke quietly. It was so silent outside, his voice echoed clearly around the snowy yard, the deep drifts inhibiting the sound from carrying further, but even Gaston stood a little more upright at the evident authority in Athos' clipped delivery.

'It is clearly unsuitable for travel. Your men were simply doing what you pay them to do – to protect you.' He did not add, _from your own stupidity_ , although he was sorely tempted. Even with his hat pulled down to shield the glare, the dazzling snow blinded him and sent pain through his head, feeling as though his eyes were being stabbed with pins. He blinked and held them shut for a second.

Gaston was deliberating with his comrades, who listened attentively, occasionally glancing over their shoulders at Athos and the Musketeers. Having finished his conversation, Gaston turned with childish glee. Athos sighed. From the look on his face he the man was not going to back down; the drama that had unfolded inside the inn forbade him from doing so, as he would not wish to lose face in front of his employees. He had to be right, however wrong he was, and Athos knew they would all pay for the man's conceit.

'Are the King's Musketeers not the bravest of soldiers? Is your duty not to do the King's bidding, at whatever cost to yourselves?' His snide tone baited the Musketeers to reply. Athos held Gaston's gaze as he tried one last time.

'We understand your desire to attend the Queen's party, just as we are fully aware of our duty – to deliver you unharmed. It is our desire to fulfil that duty, and to that end we must urge you to reconsider. The roads are dangerous. We cannot see what lies beneath the snow, what holes or hazards it may conceal. If we lose a wheel, or a horse breaks a leg, we may be stranded miles from anywhere.' As Athos' response had continued, there had been the slightest change in his tone. He had delivered the final two sentences with more conviction, and his irritation at Gaston's stupidity had been evident. The two Musketeers were impressed, it was the most impassioned speech they had heard the man deliver to a stranger, at least by Athos' standards. All three men stood awaiting Gaston's reply. For a moment, they believed Athos had got through to the perverse man. The Duke's determination appeared to waver, but then Gaston pulled up his hood and marched toward the stable.

'Come, come, where is my coach?' Athos looked at the two men Gaston had left behind – it was difficult to tell what they thought of their friend's ridiculous behaviour, though the glance that passed between them suggested they would rather he had backed down.

Athos turned to the two men at his side and shrugged his shoulders. He was furious, and he, too, stalked toward the stables to prepare his horse. Aramis and Porthos knew just how he felt – yesterday had been difficult, today was going to be horrendous. If they all made it safely to Rambouillet it would be a miracle. The journey entailed navigating a long stretch of road and would require at least three stops to rest the horses. It would have been better to find somewhere closer – had they only had advance knowledge of the weather conditions. After much fuss hitching the horses to their coach, the party made a faltering start out of the stable yard. Several of the inn's guests had come out to watch them depart, incredulity evident upon their faces. Athos had said not a word. Only when the landlord and his daughter came out to wish them well, did he utter anything at all.

'I am sorry you couldn't persuade 'im to stay put. I'm afraid your journey will not be easy,' said the landlord, shaking his head anxiously. That was _certainly_ putting it mildly. Athos nodded in agreement of the man's assessment.

'Not as sorry as I am, Monsieur,' Athos responded, authority now radiating from every pore. The two Musketeers had noted that the angrier Athos got, the haughtier his tone became. In fact, if you had stood Gaston and Athos side-by-side and closed your eyes, you would have placed Athos' background on a much higher footing than that of the vain and weak Duke.

Athos turned to young Lily. She was hopping from one foot to the other, and Aramis wasn't sure if it was nerves at Athos' close proximity, or because her footwear was so unsuited to the weather, though from the sight of her twinkling eyes he would have placed a bet on the former.

'Thank you for your care last night, Mademoiselle. It was much appreciated.' Athos lifted her small hand and placed a kiss just above her knuckles. Aramis thought the girl might faint. Instead, she gave a low curtsy and held onto her father's arm. With that, the man alighted Roger as if he didn't have a care in the world; only the stiffness of his shoulders and the steeliness of his eyes gave away his anger and pain. Aramis feared for anyone, who stood between Athos and his plans today. The marksman winked at Porthos as they, too, mounted their horses. Porthos grumbled:

'She still didn't curtsy for us!'

'Quite the charmer,' Aramis stated through a mischievous grin. Porthos beamed before nodding sagely.

'Yeah, my mother always said it was the quiet ones yer had to watch.' Chuckling, the two men wheeled their horses around and fell in behind Athos, leading the coach from the yard, whilst the three soldiers stayed well toward the rear.

Rather like during their departure from Paris, they did not leave unobserved. _She_ watched and waited in the same abandoned house she had discovered yesterday, which gave her an excellent view of all comings and goings into the town. She could always have spent the night there, but it was empty and bare, and anyway, where would have been the fun in that? She smirked as she contemplated the velvet bag dangling from her arm. A little way ahead, as the buildings began to thin out, two more horses stamped and tossed their heads in the ice-cold air, their riders, too, watching the travelling party, and biding their time.

She had sent word that morning to the Cardinal, and it had cost her plenty to ensure that the messenger would comply with her wishes. Luckily, he had already left, and she been hidden from sight when the first hue and cry erupted from the merchant's house – so much screaming, so much wailing, so unnecessary. She could do very little now and following _him_ would achieve nothing. She mounted her horse and headed in a different direction. She would take the short way around, which was not available to Athos and the Musketeers due to the travelling coach. With luck, she would reach Rambouillet well before they did, and await the Cardinal's reply. Digging in her heels, she urged her horse into a canter, not particularly caring whether the earth beneath her was safe or not.

Today, the sun shone brightly in the sky. Aramis hoped it was a sign. Already he could hear the steady sound of water dripping from the laden branches above, as the snow began to thaw. He tilted his face toward the shining orb and could almost imagine its warmth upon his face.

Considering their circumstances, Aramis was in a good mood, and being at one with the world he attempted to jolly Athos out of his black mood. Gaston deserved every glare and haughty rebuke Athos delivered, but the marksman was concerned that Athos was making an enemy – he had enough of those already.

Meanwhile, back at the Louvre, the Spanish contingent had arrived. Louis had been adamant he wanted to hide the entire entourage until the last moment, but Richelieu had patiently explained that this would be impossible. A retinue of that size would need constant attention from waiting staff and other attendants, which the Queen was bound to notice, and then there were the extra guards needed to ensure their safety. Louis pouted like a child who had just been told no, but reluctantly acquiesced.

When Queen Anne was summoned to her husband's side and saw her cousins, she was overcome. The women rushed and embraced each other, tears of joy running down their cheeks. As for Louis, he forgot all previous disappointments and clapped his hands in glee.

'How do you like my surprise, my dear?' Anne turned to her husband, flushed and overjoyed.

'You are too kind, Sire. This is the most wonderful present I could have hoped for. How I have missed my cousins so.' Louis beamed and gave the Cardinal a sly glance.

'Marvellous, I knew my idea would please you. And tonight, there will be dancing and feasting to welcome our guests. Isn't that right Cardinal?' Richelieu had retained a fixed smile upon his face as he endured Louis' juvenile delight in taking all the credit. He now attempted to find the right words to express his delight.

'Indeed it is, Sire.' He bowed, and then his eyes scanned the room, looking for the man he sought. Before he could locate him, the double doors suddenly opened. In strode Treville, and he did not look pleased. The stare he gave Richelieu would have made Athos proud – if looks could kill, the Musketeers would have been rid of a major thorn in their side.

Louis looked deflated and rolled his eyes.

'My dear Treville, why do I suspect you have come to spoil my wonderful present?' He pouted at the irate Captain and scowled in anticipation of Treville's complaint. The Musketeer Captain bowed low before the Queen and King.

'Your Majesty, it is not my intent to spoil anything. I was merely… concerned… to hear we had guests of such import, without having had the opportunity of discussing with you the necessary arrangements.' He again glared at the Cardinal, and the man's smug demeanour did nothing to assuage his ire. Louis waved his hand in a dismissive gesture.

'My dear Treville, the Cardinal has it all in hand. We thought my Musketeers were already overstretched, especially as you had to send your sword master as escort to _my brother_. Whatever would you have done next, offered your cook to safeguard our Spanish guests?' The King chuckled at his own joke, drawing confidence from the mirth of those around him.

Treville bunched his fists and endured the jibe at his men's expense.

'Your Majesty, might I…' He got no further before the King cut him off. Bored with the conversation, and just a little guilty at the subterfuge, he made it clear the topic was closed.

'My wife is delighted, Captain, and that is all that matters. Are you not, my dear?' He grinned at the Queen, and she smiled in return. Anne turned to Treville, her face expressing as much sympathy as she dared.

'I am delighted, Sire, and I appreciate Captain Treville's concern surrounding the safety of my family. I am sure, when duty allows, he will provide his brave Musketeers to protect them.' She smiled sweetly at Treville, her eyes expressing her empathy with his position. Louis nodded wisely.

'Of course, my dear, you are right, as always. Now Richelieu, you have provided a liaison for the royal guests I hear, quite the charmer. Who is this noble of which you speak? Is he present?'

This time the Cardinal smiled broadly. Treville narrowed his eyes and wondered just what the First Minister was up to now. He doubted the man had ever expressed genuine warmth in a smile – no, they usually boded ill for somebody. Everyone in the roomturned toward Richelieu awaiting his response.

'Indeed, Your Majesty. May I introduce the Comte de Rochefort.' From the rear of the room a blond man strode toward the throne. He was not particularly tall, but he had an air of arrogance about him which made Treville distrust him immediately. His expression was smug and his eyes were as cold as the man who was recommending him, so the Captain was not surprised that the two men had obviously found a mutual understanding. They stood side-by-side, both dressed almost entirely in black, only the white edging of their court attire fluttering as they moved. Treville was reminded of a pair of magpies, sneaky and spiteful, turning on their own if it suited their purpose. The Cardinal was up to something, he should have known the First Minister would have an agenda of his own, but just what that was, Treville wasn't sure he wanted to know.

Rochefort bowed low. When he spoke, his words dripped from his mouth like honey from a, spoon though, like the bees that created it, there was the hidden threat of a sting.

'Your Majesty, might I congratulate you on an inspired gift for Her Majesty the Queen? Truly magnificent.' He purred his ingratiating approval into Louis' willing ears. The King loved nothing more than to receive gratuitous confirmation of his achievements and ideas and was beaming so widely that his cheeks must surely have ached.

'My dear Rochefort, why have I not had the pleasure of your company before? It is so nice to hear from someone who appreciates my efforts.' Louis glanced at Treville, making no attempt to disguise the inference of his remark. Treville stared at a spot near his feet in an attempt to hide his frustration, hoping the King would see it as an act of contrition. Louis waved his hands to clear a space at his side.

'Bring me a chair!' he ordered no one in particular. As one materialised out of nowhere, he gestured for Rochefort to sit beside him. 'My dear Rochefort, pray tell me about yourself, we are all agog.' The Queen, spying Treville's discomfort, interrupted her husband on his behalf.

'Sire, would you allow my cousins and I to become reacquainted, I can hardly contain my eagerness to hear their news. Perhaps you would allow Captain Treville to escort us to my chambers.' The King had a new toy to play with, and was only too happy to grant his wife's request.

'Of course, my dear. Captain, if you will.' He turned back to Rochefort, indicating he had no further remark to make. Treville bowed and followed the Queen and her guests from the room. As they neared the Queen's chambers she turned abruptly and addressed the Captain.

'Captain, do you know of this Comte de Rochefort at all?' She tried to sound as if she was merely curious, but Treville knew the Queen was no fool.

'No, Your Highness, he is not known to me.' The Queen nodded, though Treville caught the uneasiness in her smile.

'I am sure you have far more important things to do than stand outside my door, Captain. Please return to the garrison and attend to your men.' She smiled and retreated into her rooms, her ladies-in-waiting and the Spanish cousins with her. Treville wasted no time but left the palace growling at anyone who got in his way.

The journey was deplorable. They had stopped twice to dig the coach out of the snow. On both occasions the occupants had remained inside, making the job far more difficult than it needed to be. Each time, Athos' temper had risen another notch, and his mood was becoming more morose by the hour. He stared into the distance, as though his gaze could scorch a path through the snow. And having long given up trying to cajole his friend out of his mood, Aramis would not have been surprised if it had. Only the sun remained bright and cheerful, but even that could not improve the ambience of the party.

The horses were tired. Several times one or another had slipped, and the men had drawn a sharp breath, dreading a fall or injury to their legs. Luckily, the sturdy mounts had regained their footing each time, and the moment had passed. Athos was just about to call a halt so they could rest the tired beasts, when there was an almighty crack, followed by the scream of terrified horses. As the three men wheeled around, they were just in time to see the carriage leaning at an unnatural angle, before pitching onto its side, the horses frantically attempting to maintain their footing. The quick-thinking coachman pulled out a knife and hacked at the harness in a bid to free the frightened animals. Porthos rode to his assistance, and between them they managed to separate all six from the teetering coach. With the horses now free, the coach fell further onto its roof. Beneath the thick snow had been a deep dyke, which they could not possibly have seen. Had the men's own horses been slightly more to the right, they too would have tumbled to their inevitable demise.

Athos and the two Musketeers wasted no time. Aramis jumped onto the side of the coach and pulled open the door. Inside was carnage. All three men were tangled in a heap and one of them was bleeding badly. With the help of the three soldiers, Athos and Porthos managed to drag the occupants out and lie them upon the ground. Not ideal due to the conditions, but there was very little choice. Montmorency was conscious, and apart from slight cuts and bruises appeared unharmed, though from his dazed appearance they were concerned he may not be in full possession of his faculties. Upon witnessing the scene inside the coach, fearing the worst, Aramis had run for his medical pack.

Gaston was unconscious, and the Marquis looked ghastly; he had a deep gash to his head and was bleeding copiously. As the medic squatted by their side, Athos and Porthos went to examine the state of the coach. It did not take long to confirm that it was beyond repair, at least by their hand. Athos could not believe how such a relatively simple mission could have gone so badly wrong. He looked at Aramis and asked:

'Well?' Curt was putting it mildly. It was the first word he had uttered since they had left the inn, yet the way he delivered it was more powerful than a dozen more well-chosen ones. Aramis shrugged.

'Gaston has a dislocated shoulder, the other one… as you can see… it will need stitching.'

'Dislocated?' The expression on Athos' face was simply terrifying, there was the ghost of a smile around his mouth, but his eyes were cold as stone. The implication was clear, retribution. Porthos smirked.

'Need a hand?' This time Athos actually smiled, though the quirk of his brow added a sense of menace, as he gave his icy rejoinder.

'No!' Porthos laughed out loud this time. This was one relocation he couldn't wait to see. Aramis looked around.

'We need to get them out of this snow, and we need a fire. They may well be shocked, and I'm not happy about the look of him either,' he said, indicating Montmorency, who was walking up and down talking quietly to himself. Athos and Porthos watched him for a moment before looking at one another. Athos rolled his eyes and stalked toward the coach. Porthos followed.

'Can we liberate anything from inside?' Athos inquired, giving Porthos a sidelong smirk. The big man snorted with amusement and jumped into the coach's interior. After a lot of groaning and heaving he emerged with the seat cushion from one side of the coach.

'Impressive,' Athos nodded. '…and the other?' Porthos beamed and disappeared back inside. Athos called to the two soldiers and told them to carry the makeshift bed and clear some snow away. Porthos produced the other bench, his face flushed but a look of enjoyment on his face.

'I do love pulling things apart,' he smiled with enthusiasm, aiming a look of longing at the unconscious Gaston. Athos raised a brow and shook his head.

'That pleasure is mine.' Porthos guffawed.

'And I wouldn't deprive you of it for even a minute. Need any more?' He indicated the coach once more and Athos considered his question. Aramis heard his query and shouted out:

'There are rugs and blankets, and some wood would be useful. 'Athos looked at the overturned object and tilted his head.

'Or we could just set fire to the coach.' The seriousness of the comment had Porthos looking worried for a moment before he recognised the look of mischief in Athos' eyes. Grinning he went back inside the wrecked conveyance and laughed:

'You are enjoying this far too much, my friend.' In reality, Athos was doing anything but. They now had three injured men, no coach, and they were stranded in the middle of nowhere in the snow. What else could possibly go wrong or – more to the point – when would anything go right? They managed to clear a large area of snow and Porthos broke up more of the internal fixtures of the coach to make a fire. He had gone about the task with a worrying fervour, but no one could complain about the heat now radiating from the fierce blaze. Montmorency had gone to sleep after drinking one of Aramis' concoctions. The medic was concerned that as the man had received a severe blow to the head, he was now in the throes of concussion. The thought jarred his memory and he smote his brow.

'In all this excitement I completely forgot about your head! How are you feeling my friend?' Athos had almost forgotten about his head too, so wrapped up had he been in recent events. Considering the question now, he had to admit that he was not feeling as nauseated as he had been earlier. There was now just a constant thudding, rather than a loud hammering inside his skull; the light continued to hurt his eyes and his vision was still far from perfect. Of course, he smiled gently at Aramis, and nodded his head.

'Much better, thank you.' Aramis screwed up his eyes and paused for a moment.

'Honestly?' Athos looked as innocent as possible before replying to the medic.

'Of course,' he said. But not for one minute did Aramis believe him. However, Athos _was_ awake and, on his feet, which was more than could be said of either of the three men who were lying upon ground. Porthos looked serious for a moment.

'How far to Rambouillet?' Aramis considered the question before looking grave.

'Prior to the accident, we may have made it before sundown. Now…?' he shrugged his shoulders and turned back to the men upon the ground.

'What if we ride?' Athos asked, his tone business-like once more. Aramis gave him a look of consternation.

'They are not even conscious!' Athos shrugged.

'I didn't say they had to be upright,' the swords man drawled. Aramis gave a thin smile and ran his hand through his hair.

'I don't know, mon ami, it may be dangerous. Ask me when they awake.' Porthos shook his head and looked from the men back to the medic.

'If they awake. I'm not too fond of the thought of a night out here in the snow.' Athos snorted in response, gesturing toward the broken vehicle.

'We really should have set fire to the coach.' And with a gleam in his eye, he walked over to the three soldiers.

'Renard? Do you know this area well?' The soldier who had ridden beside Athos the previous day nodded enthusiastically.

'Indeed, I was bought up not far from here.' Athos looked slightly relieved.

'Are we near any village or farmstead, somewhere we can spend the night?' Renard gave a blank look.

'I am sorry, I don't. This area is remote, most of the farms around here have been abandoned, the taxes are too high to make them pay.' Athos felt his heart sink. He looked at the resting horses and the broken carriage. It seemed they had no choice.

Moans from one of the unconscious men caught his attention. Aramis called to him.

'Gaston's waking up!' Athos knelt beside the pale form and waited for him to open his eyes.

'What happened?' the Duke asked, speaking for the first time without sneering.

'The carriage fell into a ditch obscured by the snow. It is ruined.' Athos could not help an uneasy glance at the blazing fire.

'How do you feel?' the medic asked. He had found no other injuries to Gaston's person other than the unnatural angle of the man's shoulder. As if Gaston had heard his thoughts he winced and cried out:

'My shoulder, what is wrong with my shoulder? Have I lost my arm?' They might have sympathised with his panic had they had an ounce of liking for the man but as it was Athos simply stated the facts.

'It is dislocated. I need to reset it. It will hurt.' Gaston looked aghast, peering at Athos and both of the Musketeers in turn, as if to gauge their intent. It was obvious he did not want Athos near him, but when Porthos cracked his big knuckles and smiled, Gaston actually flinched. Scowling at Athos he simply said:

'Make it quick!' His scowl faltered when Athos gave one of his terrifying smiles. Nodding, he answered:

'Of course.' Porthos sat behind Gaston, supporting the man, which had the added advantage of Gaston not being able to see the look of satisfaction upon his face.

Aramis supervised the arrangements. As a medic, he was somewhat concerned by Porthos' grin and Athos flinty glare; nonetheless, the Musketeer was enjoying it immensely.

'Ready?' Athos drawled. Before Gaston could reply, he took hold of his arm and yanked it unceremoniously back into its socket. Gaston cried out in agony, his eyes rolling back in his head as he collapsed upon Porthos. Aramis rolled his eyes.

'Wonderful, unconscious again!' He glared at Athos, who had satisfaction written all over his face, but he surprised the two Musketeers when he said:

'I believe there might be some brandy left.' He saw the expressions on the others' faces and gave a cheeky grin.

'Why travel with one, when you can travel with two?' As he strode off toward Roger, the two Musketeers slapped each other on the shoulder. Porthos looked at the retreating figure.

'It's amazing what a little pay-back can do, especially when you can get away with it!' He beamed at the sleeping Gaston, as Athos passed around the bottle, having poured some for Renard and his companions. Then Aramis asked the ever-present question.

'What now?' Athos looked serious once more, as he took a long drink from the bottle.

'Now my friends, we ride.' He nodded to the spare horses from the carriage and continued: 'Renard knows this area and tells me we are near nowhere suitable for us to spend the night. We now also have to bear in mind that there may be someone out there who wants to see Gaston dead.'

'Really? Only one?' Porthos asked, trying to look disbelieving. 'Wanting to kill him? Who'da thought it?' Athos nodded and smirked.

'Difficult, I know. Now, Rambouillet is manageable if we continue on horseback. If necessary, we will double up with the injured men and take spare horses so we can rotate them, that way we will not have to stop so often.' The two Musketeers looked impressed with the suggestion – using the spare horses to rotate was a stroke of genius.

'Then we had better prepare ourselves,' Aramis declared. 'It is not ideal, but I will try and rouse the patients, and if they are well enough, we will make a start. Once more Athos had taken the lead. In fact, Athos making the decisions and the Musketeers following was becoming the norm, and none of them had even noticed.


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter 22

One by one, as the three men finally returned to consciousness, Aramis had reluctantly declared them fit enough to travel. Athos knew he had pressured the medic, but also knew that his reasons had been sound; better to ride and agitate their injuries, than to spend the night in freezing conditions; which were potentially fatal.

The horses travelled as fast as their riders deemed safe. Renard, and one of his companions, had travelled with the driver to arrange for the coach – or at least what was left of it – to be retrieved and repaired. The three injured men rode with Athos and the two Musketeers, with the last soldier – Jean Luc – bringing the other four horses, and as much of the men's belongings as they had deemed necessary. Aramis was quite sure _their_ assessment of _necessary,_ would fall far short of Gaston's requirements.

It had been thought wise to pair Gaston with Aramis for, as far as the Duke could make out, he seemed to be the least fearsome of the three. Athos rode with Montmorency, who had remained dazed, quiet and confused since he had awoken. That left Porthos. As the biggest and strongest of the three, he had carried the Marquis. In and out of consciousness, he needed far more care to ensure he remained in the saddle, so had been consigned to the big Musketeer's solid arms. Midday had long passed, and they had already changed horses once. Though the empty steeds were having to keep up, as they had no heavy weight to carry, they could be used to rotate with the riders' mounts, allowing them to continue for longer.

Once they were underway, Athos had fallen back into his dark and silent mood. Aramis was aware that the man continually watched the sky above, as well as searching the surrounding area, constantly alert to anything that could pose a threat. The medic was grateful that Athos had been unconscious for most of the previous night, as during the brief time he had known the man, he had become aware that his sleep patterns were poor at best. He believed that whilst in the infirmary, despite becoming stronger, he had often merely feigned slumber. He knew that for Athos sleep did not provide the rest and recuperation that it afforded most people; even on a good night, he would awake at least once, tormented by those of which he would not speak.

Aramis glanced across at the man riding beside him. He was aware of how much Athos had occupied his thoughts of late, and suspected that Porthos felt the same. He considered Athos as others must see him. Aramis himself was a ladies' man and liked to think he knew what it was about his sex that held an attraction for a woman. He had observed Lily's behaviour and, if it could be counted, that of the Duchess – and it had been obvious that both had had a high opinion of their modest friend. Despite Athos' permanent air of hauteur, he still managed to exude an element of vulnerability, and Aramis knew that every woman loved the thought of repairing a broken man. Perhaps it was that which attracted them, though even Aramis had to admit the man was not without his admirable features. However, it was not Athos' looks that bothered Aramis, it was the way he had appeared from nowhere, and yet within a matter of weeks, had become an essential part of their lives – because as even Porthos would have to admit, should Athos choose to leave, they would both keenly feel his loss.

It was strange, and a situation Aramis would continue to ponder. Had he have asked Porthos, he would have put if far more succinctly: _like new boots, painful and irritating, but you love 'em, and you can't help but be proud of them at the same time_. Aramis laughed out loud, the idea of comparing Athos to a pair of new boots was amusing, and he could not contain his mirth. Porthos looked at his friend with concern.

'What's so' amusin'?' he growled.

'Nothing, mon ami. Just thinking,' Aramis reassured his friend. Gaston had slept since they had started their journey, but was now beginning to wake, and Aramis braced himself – mentally and physically.

'Where are we?' Gaston demanded. Aramis gave a cursory examination of the area, and even with his sharp eyes, had to admit he could not determine their precise location. Judging by the position of the sun, he considered it to be late afternoon, and that was the only clue he had.

'I would say we are approximately three hours from Rambouillet, Monsieur. How are you feeling?' Gaston snorted angrily, then proceeded to pour out a diatribe of complaints.

'My shoulder is agony. I know Monsieur Athos took no care in its relocation. I will make sure to convey his blatant disregard when I am reunited with my dear brother.

Aramis was itching to clarify the remark with: _the brother you tried to usurp and kill_ ,but Gaston continued to state his grievances.

'My head aches, and why am I sharing a horse with a Musketeer?' Aramis raised his eyes to heaven and prayed to God for tolerance.

'We considered the need of each of the injured men and decided on the most appropriate course of action.' At this point Aramis decided a little untruth would be considered acceptable by the Almighty.

'As you were clearly the most important member of the party, we thought it necessary that you should ride with me, as I am the garrison's medic. Your friend, the Marquis, is the most seriously injured and so needed the most care, hence Porthos. That left Athos to take care of Montmorency, as he was the least affected.' Gaston did not know how to react to this, though it was typical of his selfish nature that he did not bother to ask as to the severity of his friend's injuries.

To Amaris' glee, Gaston fell silent. He thanked God for his mercy and prayed that the state of grace would continue. Porthos rode at his side, his passenger still sleeping. The Viscount had woken briefly, long enough to accept a pain remedy; he had been compliant and made very little fuss. Aramis hoped his acceptance would continue when he saw the stitches above his eye – he was proud of his fine needlework, but if the man proved as vain as Gaston, no doubt he would not appreciate the medic's best efforts.

On Aramis' other side rode Athos with Montmorency. The man was awake, and Aramis thought he had heard him speaking, though whether what he said had made any sense was debatable. Whilst they had been seeing to the others' injuries at the accident site, he had mumbled inane babble, pacing up and down as he did so. Aramis looked at the stoic man alongside him and risked a question.

'How is Montmorency?' Athos prodded the man sitting in front of him, before offering a curt response.

'Sleeping, or dead.' Aramis heard Porthos give a snort of amusement.

'I rather hope it is the former. It would be unfortunate to have the man stuck to your horse until the rigour passes.' Porthos laughed louder than before, and even Athos turned toward the exasperated Musketeer, and gave a slight twitch of his lips.

'He is warm, and occasionally he moans. He lives.' Athos added. Aramis nodded. He hadn't doubted it for a minute.

The sun was beginning its descent into late afternoon, and the sky had begun to darken once more. The wind had picked up, causing the men's strained eyes to stream, the constant scanning of the white countryside beginning to take its toll.

'How much further?' Gaston asked. His tone was irritated, but with an edge of weariness that prevented him from being more verbose. Aramis had been asking himself the very same question for some time. The trees had begun to crowd in upon them, and the path had narrowed. Rambouillet was set on the edge of the Forêt d'Yveline, a huge woodland that stretched for many miles in all directions. Luckily, the Château was not in the town itself, but closer to their present location. Aramis could not be sure of his accuracy when he answered the Duke, but he hoped his estimate was close.

'I anticipate arriving at the Château within the hour, Monsieur.' Gaston gave a sigh. Aramis could not tell if it was one of irritation or gratitude. He was surprised when the man asked:

'How are the others?' The medic glanced at Porthos and Athos' patients. Both, it appeared, were awake, though neither looked much as if they felt like talking.

'I think they are both conscious once more, but the Viscount received a nasty head wound, which required stitching. The blood loss alone would have left him tired. Possibly he has also sustained a concussion, as may Montmorency. Gaston huffed, this time his disapproval obvious.

'A lot of use they are going to be!' He went silent and, though the medic could not see his face, he could picture the man's petulant pout quite clearly. How glad he would be when they were safely back in Paris. However, he was concerned about how Athos' role during recent events would be relayed to the King. After all, Athos was not held in high esteem by the monarch, and he doubted Gaston's retelling of events would aid the swordsman's acceptance into the regiment.

After an arduous journey, the woman was now sitting beside a warm fire. The travelling inn where she found herself was of a better class than most; it catered for the nobility and had several well-appointed rooms, one of which she had been fortunate enough to procure. She sat in a quiet corner sipping her wine, reading once more the letter that had been handed to her upon her arrival.

It bore no name, and the message was succinct. _Delay_ _arrival, as long as possible. R._ The word delay was underlined. She sighed – he didn't want them killed. Pity, it would have been much easier. Perhaps she could shoot a horse or maim a couple of the party – far more straightforward and less planning involved. Looking around the room, she thought how she could not wait to return to Paris. She was not comfortable in rural surroundings, she never had been – peasants were so judgemental and unimaginative.

The wind rattled the window behind her, and she turned to look outside. Evening was fast approaching. The light was fading, and the trees were bending and swaying under the worsening squall; the weather had begun to deteriorate again. She needed to get inside the Château. She had no idea what she would do once inside, but she would achieve nothing whilst she remained here. At that moment, the inn door opened, and a man stood outlined in the doorway. After a brief pause, he pulled it firmly shut and strode into the room. His head was covered by a hood, but something about his entrance awoke a recent memory.

She closed her eyes and let her mind relax. Yes… Toury. She had seen the same mannerisms on the night she had attacked Athos, or saved him, dependent upon your viewpoint; she doubted his two watchdogs would have seen the positive side. Dismissing the event for now, she watched the man as he talked quietly to the landlord. He did not wear the expensive clothing of nobility, but neither were they the rough quality of a peasant – a tradesman, or merchant perhaps. Yet something about his bearing had her stroking the dagger beneath her skirt. So, he had made the same journey. Why? Why would anyone have travelled under such conditions, unless it was absolutely necessary? After all, he was hardly on route to the Queen's. That left one other interesting possibility: like her, he was following Gaston and hisentourage.

As the man turned and scanned the room, he caught her eye. The tavern was full, and she had been fortunate to avail herself of such a good position. She gave him her best smile, or one of them; she had several, all with different meanings. This one was slightly enigmatic, but with the potential for mutual satisfaction. The man gave a twitch of his brow in acknowledgement but did not react with particular fervour. Again interesting. Most men would have been scurrying over by now, simpering and positively dribbling. She changed her assessment – a soldier maybe, or mercenary. His eyes were cold, and for a moment she hoped she had not made an error. She saw that he now carried a carafe of wine and a cup and was heading toward her table. As he stood before her, he spoke, his voice low, but with a cruel quality that made her shiver. She realised that she would not be able to play him as easily as most.

'Madam, may I join you?' Before she been able to respond, he had sat down beside her. Any other time, his actions would have infuriated her, and she would have sent him on his way with a flea in his ear. However, she needed to know what he knew, and what he wanted – for he wanted something from Athos and his party, of that she was sure. She smiled again, at once both warm and disarming.

'Why of course. It is a night most foul is it not, and the fire is warm. Have you travelled far?' The man smiled, though she noticed that it did not reach his eyes.

'Not far. Yourself?' He had given nothing away, so she would play along.

'I set out from the outskirts of Paris to visit my ill sister. Alas, my carriage was damaged, due to the icy roads, and I was forced to reside here. I have been advised it may be several days before it is repaired so that I may resume my journey.' She looked distressed, but the man's face was inscrutable.

He looked at the woman and, though she was undoubtably beautiful, he doubted that she was as innocent as she appeared. There was a note of steel in her bearing, not nobility, but he expected she could take care of herself. So why the act? She wasn't a whore, they would not ply their trade in a tavern, not even one as insalubrious as this one. No, not a whore, not dressed like she was anyway. Still, if she wanted to play, why not? She might be useful; after all, a couple arriving at a party would be far more believable than a single man. Pity about her coach, if she even had one, but he could see to that. He changed his approach, and when he spoke his voice had softened somewhat.

'So, you have no plans, or acquaintances in Rambouillet?' She hesitated for a minute, she was not sure she liked where the question was leading.

'No, no one.' Her heart beat increased as she revealed her vulnerability to this stranger; so used to being the cat, she didn't relish being the mouse.

'My name is Gerrard, Jean Franc Gerrard,' He took her hand and placed a kiss above her gloved fingers. 'I am invited to a party tonight at the Château Rambouillet. My uncle could not attend and so asked if I would go in his stead. I would be delighted if you would join me as my guest.' She could not believe her luck. Still, something in his voice told her to be wary, he had an agenda of his own and was using her, just as she had planned to use him. But if it gained her access to the Château, then so be it, she could easily disappear once she was within the safety of its walls. Feigning surprise and delight, she replied:

'I should introduce myself, Monsieur – Milady de Winter. I thank you for such a kind invitation, a party would be an excellent distraction, much more amusing than spending the night here.' She waved a hand to indicate the smoke-filled room. Pausing, she made to look a little flustered. 'If you would excuse me, I must go and prepare. My clothes are all packed for travelling and will need to be made ready.'

'Of course. I look forward to later.' If there were a deeper meaning inferred in his words, she chose to ignore it. There would be no _later_ once she had gained entrance to the Château.

The weary party looked upon the Château de Rambouillet with relief. The last few miles had passed slowly, and the horses were tired; despite the regular rotations, the beasts now needed rest and water. Athos eyed the torches which lit the long approach to the impressive residence. It was unusual. The sputtering flames danced and pitched in the strengthening wind, and the fact that they had managed to stay alight at all was a small miracle.

As the party could not afford to stay more than one night at Rambouillet, there had luckily been no more snow. As it was, Gaston would only arrive in Paris on the morning of the party, and although the delay had ensured that Gaston would be kept busy right up until the last minute, meaning that he could not pursue his own agenda, the King would probably be less pleased. As they reached the steps to the grand frontage, several footmen appeared. Taking in the attire of the Musketeers, they looked slightly bemused. Athos stepped forward and gave a curt nod.

'A party of Musketeers are escorting the Duc d'Orleans to Paris at the behest of the King. The Duke's carriage overturned near Toury and several of our party, including the Duke, have sustained injury. We request permission from His Grace to rest at the Château before continuing our journey in the morning.' He delivered the request with a calm authority, and a noble tone, which the servants accepted.

They led the way into the large entrance hall, where an elderly man approached them, looking somewhat aghast at the appearance of the party. They had all become rather disheveled since they had left Toury that morning, and goodness knows what he must have thought of the bloodstained men. The Major-domo attempted to adopt a haughty demeanour, and Athos was just about to to explain, when Gaston pushed him aside.

'Tell Rambouillet that the Duc d'Orleans has arrived and demands an audience.' Whilst the Viscount was still being supported by Porthos, Montmorency had now obviously gained enough of his senses to stand beside the Duke. The Major–domo, to his credit, did not move or wilt beneath Gaston's blazing stare. He simply cleared his throat and replied:

'I am afraid, Monsieur, His Grace is not in residence. He has travelled to Paris as a guest of the King and Queen.' This seemed to act as a catalyst to all of Gaston's pent up fury. He launched himself at the man, hands ready to grab the servant by the throat. Athos stepped between them and spoke, addressing himself to Gaston, calmly but firmly.

' _That_ , will not be necessary.' Gaston stared at Athos, shocked into silence, though his eyes blazed with fury. Athos turned to the stunned and shaking Major-domo and asked: 'Do I understand that there is to be a gathering at the Château this evening?' The Major-domo pulled himself together and, reacting to the clipped tones of Athos' voice, he answered:

'Yes, Monsieur, My Lady d'Angennes, the Duke's daughter, is holding a ball.' Gaston's mood changed in an instant.

'A ball? How marvellous, you must take me to her at once.' The Major-domo did not wish to elicit Gaston's anger again, and gesticulated for him to follow, not seeming to care that the Musketeers and Athos followed too. Jean Luc had gone with the horses and would probably be down in the kitchens by now, nice and warm, regaling them with lurid tales of his treacherous journey.

The wary servant opened a large set of double doors and entered, announcing the party following in his wake.

'The Duc d'Orleans and…' At this he faltered, not really knowing what to say about the two bloodied and tattered nobles. As to the grubby but dangerous looking men that accompanied them, he was without precedent. Relief was evident upon his face when his mistress took control of the situation.

'Thank you, Phillipe. Refreshments for our guests if you please, and I assume the _gentlemen_ will be staying, so rooms will need to be prepared.' Phillipe bowed and hurried from the room. The woman standing near the fire was tall and blonde, her hair piled high upon her head, with small blue flowers adorning the arrangement. She was clothed in blue silk, the hue of winter sky, and jewels sparkled around her neck and wrists as they caught the light from the fire's flames. She did not appear to be nonplussed by the arrival of the party – if anything, she seemed to find the intrusion amusing.

'Gaston, you always were inconvenient, even as a child.' She waved her hand toward the sofa.

'Please, do sit. Montmorency looks as though he is about to fall and as to Luc…' At this she looked worried.

'Luc, are you well?' The Viscount roused himself slightly from Porthos' grasp. He bowed as low as he dared, Porthos keeping one hand upon his arm. When he spoke, it was with a weak and broken voice.

'My dear Julienne, I must admit I have felt better.' He managed a wan smile. As the footmen and Major-domo appeared, the woman issued her orders. Gaston had attempted to speak, but she had simply raised her hand and silenced him, much to the appreciation of Athos and the Musketeers.

'Phillipe, please assist the Viscount to his room, he is in need of rest.' Once they had ushered the sick man away, she turned to the rest of the party, letting her gaze settle upon Athos and then the two Musketeers, one at a time. 'My, my, Musketeers. How marvellous, I have never seen one up close!' She sashayed across the room until she stood close to Aramis. Porthos noted how Athos took a step backward staying in the shadows of the room. She smiled up at the suave Musketeer, as he, bowing low, gave her one of his most charming smiles.

'Madam, Aramis of the King's Musketeers at your service. May I introduce Porthos, and Athos.' He waved a hand toward the big Musketeer, but when he indicated the spot where Athos had been, he found the space now empty. He frowned slightly but continued. 'We were escorting the Duke to Paris, but unfortunately our coach overturned, hence the Viscount's injuries. If your ladyship allows, I would like to check on his injuries once he is comfortable.' She smiled at the Musketeer and nodded her head.

'Of course, Monsieur Aramis.' She then walked up to Porthos and placed her hand upon his arm. 'Well, well, you are rather… large, are you not?' she said, sliding her hand down the big man's arm. Porthos, not quite sure how to react, elected to smile and bow. Next, she adjusted her line of sight to take in Athos. He was standing a little way off from the two Musketeers now, and his face was cast in shadow. He was staring at a point over the woman's head and refused to make eye contact. She smiled, and then a slight frown creased her brow.

'Athos, if my memory serves me correctly. You remind me of someone, Monsieur Athos. Have we ever met?' Athos did not avert his gaze from the spot above the fireplace, his reply clipped and toneless.

'No, My Lady, we have not.' Still the woman looked at him. Her eyes travelled over the man's body, then, raising a brow, she smiled and walked away.

'So, Gaston, Louis has forgiven you. Who would have anticipated such an event? Though if you intend to arrive for the Queen's party, I'm afraid you will be rather late.' Gaston hissed.

'You always were bossy and obnoxious, Julie. I see you haven't changed,' he sneered, turning to pour himself a drink.

'Yes, and you were always a spoiled mother's boy who liked his own way. I doubt that has changed either.' She raised her hand once more as he made to object. 'You are in my home and I am about to have guests. You are welcome to enjoy the hospitality of my household, join the festivities, or rest, as you prefer. However, do not come the high-handed heir to the throne with me, I know far too many of your secrets. Do I make myself clear?' Gaston's eyes narrowed and he gave a curt nod.

She eyed Aramis and smiled. 'I extend my invitation to you and your men. Please feel free to make yourself at home. My footman will show you to your room – I do hope you do not mind the cramped arrangements, but I am afraid we are rather full this evening. I look forward to seeing you later. Oh, and I do hope you dance, gentlemen.' With a parting smile she walked toward the door, a footman opening it as she approached. Before exiting, she paused and looked at Athos once more, this time managing to catch his eye. She stared for several seconds before smiling and giving a slow nod of her head, though she did not lower her eyes. 'Monsieur Athos.' She swept from the room leaving behind her a heavy silence, as every pair of eyes followed her departure. Gaston stood, banging his glass down upon the table.

'Infernal woman, I have never liked her. How dare she speak to me like that. When…' At this point his ranting tailed off and he gave the Musketeers a sidelong glance, his expression devious and cold.

'When what, I wonder?' Porthos asked, as yet another member of the household staff led them to the upper floors where the servants and visiting valets had their rooms. Aramis shrugged his shoulders, whilst Athos merely quirked his brow.

' _When I am King_ , do you suppose?' he continued. Aramis shook his head and looked worried.

'That would certainly have fit with his mood, but I don't know how he could have arranged such a thing with so little notice.' Athos now spoke, and his demeanour made the two men falter.

'How do we know? How do we know he has not had warning?' Aramis looked thoughtful as all three men continued to follow the footman along a maze of passages.

'You still believe Gaston put his brother up to inviting him to Paris?' It was Athos' turn to shrug,

'Perhaps. But anyone with the ear of the King could have dripped the idea into his head over a period of time, until he believed he had conceived the idea himself.'

'Is Gaston behind it do ya think?' Porthos asked, scowling. He was concerned that whilst they were babysitting the petulant prince, the real threat might already be in Paris – or even the Louvre. Athos nodded.

'Most likely. He would have been able to orchestrate it from afar. In fact, the entire party was probably his idea. When you think about it, it was most unlike Louis from the very beginning, desiring such a gathering in the middle of winter.' The two Musketeers nodded in agreement.

'Treville would know if there were troops amassing near the city. Surely such news could not be kept secret?' Aramis asked. Athos shook his head.

'He would not risk so bold a move. Gaston would never be allowed to enter the Palace if he had already shown his hand. No, I believe the threat will be small but deadly.' Aramis and Porthos looked alarmed. Perhaps Gaston did not need to be present at all. Perhaps it was already in hand. Frustrated that it seemed they could do nothing, Aramis removed his hat and smoothed back his hair.

'Mon Dieu, we have played right into his hands! Treville is alone and we are in the middle of nowhere attending _a ball_.' Porthos strode into the room which the footman was indicating and, when the other two were safely inside and the door closed, he spoke, keeping his usually booming voice low.

'I could return to Paris and warn Treville. Gaston would question it if either of you left, but I am not sure he would even notice if I were gone.' Athos and Aramis exchanged amused glances; Aramis laughed, and a smile tugged at Athos' lips.

'I think he would notice if you left, my friend. You would leave rather a large hole in the party!'

'We would not have to share the brandy, though' Athos quipped to Aramis. The man straightened his face and attempted to look serious.

'That is true, mon ami. It would go much further with just you and I.' The two men nodded to each other, before looking back at the big Musketeer. Porthos narrowed his eyes then broke into a booming laugh.

'Last longer? Sharing with him?' He pointed at Athos and then slapped his leg, as if the idea was the funniest thing he had ever heard. Aramis looked at Athos with a shrug of sympathy.

'Perhaps he has a point, my friend,' the Musketeer admitted, his apologetic expression marred by a spreading grin. Athos merely snorted, glaring at them both. Frowning, he spoke, businesslike once more.

'No, I think it would be best for us to stay together. Something tells me our journey may still become interesting. I hope I am wrong.' Athos' voice was low and smooth, his face registering no emotion, and his mind wandering off to the place he inhabited when he needed to think. The other two men had learnt that when Athos was in this mood, he was best left to his own devices.

'Shall we 'ave a look around?' Porthos asked Aramis with a wink, nodding toward the oblivious Athos.

'His lordship will be alright on his own. He's thinkin',' He rose both brows and grinned. Luckily, Athos had been facing away from the big Musketeer as he had innocently made the teasing quip, so Porthos had not seen the stricken look of panic upon his face. But Aramis did not miss much, and he had noticed the way Athos had stiffened suddenly. Porthos was still talking, but Aramis wasn't listening, he was trying to work out what it was Porthos had just said to cause Athos' reaction. However, Porthos had said a great deal and it was difficult to pinpoint what it might have been, perhaps Athos just did not wish to be left alone.

'Will you be alright, my friend? I should go and check on the Marquis and Montmorency.' By this time, Athos had himself under control once more, and turned back to the two men.

'I think I will be able to manage.' He eyed the table, and the two men followed his line of sight. Their hostess had graciously supplied them with wine and glasses. Aramis and Porthos laughed.

'Make sure you play nice, and remember to share, we will not be long,' Aramis teased, and he and Porthos exited the room.

Athos let out a huge sigh. When Porthos had addressed him as his lordship his heart had leapt to his throat – it had been a very long time since he had been called that, and he hoped never to be called it again. For a second, he thought they had somehow discovered his secret, and the relief upon realising the big man was teasing had been immense.

Walking over to the dresser that held the wine, he pulled the cork from the bottle with his teeth and poured a glass – smooth and red. He lifted the vessel to his nose and smelt the rich aroma then, smiling, he closed his eyes as he tasted the liquid; it was not often that he managed to drink such fine a vintage as this. Often, what taverns served as wine he would not have allowed Roger to drink, although, so long as it promised to dull his senses for a few hours, he himself had managed to consume it in large quantities. Now here was a wine of excellent quality, and he had to admit that, this at least, was something he missed from his old life. He wondered what was left in the cellar he had left behind, or even if it was still intact. For a moment, he felt a pang of remorse that he had simply walked away from his home and his obligations. His father would spin in his grave, if he could see his eldest son now.

Pouring another glass of wine, Athos gritted his jaw and frowned. It was over, gone for good. What was one more layer of guilt when he already had so many? Sitting on the edge of the bed, he poured from the bottle once more.


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter 23

Richelieu was feeling relatively pleased with himself. Only one more day to go, and there had been no sign of Gaston, or the meddling Musketeers. With any luck, they were up to their necks in snow and may never make it to Paris at all. As to his other plans, Rochefort was entertaining the King beautifully, and had become a firm favourite with the Spanish contingent. The Queen seemed less enamoured, but then she was not a stupid woman, and not necessary to his subterfuge.

The King was signing his morning papers, the two men alone, a moment's peace away from the constant chatter and gossip of the court. Louis' attention was waning, and his impatience was beginning to show.

'My brother should have arrived by now. You do not think he has declined my invitation do you, Cardinal?' For a moment Richelieu considered the question. Surely not even Gaston was stupid enough to ignore an invitation from the King of France, especially if it extended the hand of forgiveness.

'No, Sire, I doubt that very much. The weather has been dreadful, and many of the country roads will have been impassable. I am sure he is merely delayed.' He smiled as he observed the mounting irritation upon his monarch's face, knowing who would bear the brunt of Louis' anger.

'Treville should have sent the invitation sooner, I knew waiting so late was a poor idea.' He looked toward the window, where the city remained a blur of white. Sighing, he talked as if to himself. 'It was such a good idea. Hold a party to which I could invite Gaston; I need not show any sign of remorse for my treatment of him, no mention of his deeds, and yet it allowed me the perfect opportunity to reunite with my brother.'

Richelieu turned to the King, his eyes narrowing, now paying much closer attention to Louis' mutterings.

'Indeed, it was a very good idea, Sire.' He wondered how he could phrase the question he wished to ask, without first having to force the King to own up to the fact that it had not been his idea – for the First Minister was now quite sure it had not. 'Of course, family rifts are complicated, but very sad. One should try to make reparation if possible, and of course the first to offer conciliation is the greater man.' Louis beamed at the Cardinal.

'That is exactly what d'Coucy said.' Louis looked slightly contrite, realising what he had revealed. Richelieu kept calm, continuing to smile at the King, he needed to know _exactly_ what the Baron d'Coucy had said.

'Indeed, Sire, that was very foresighted of the man. I did not realise he had been in court of late.' He feigned only mild interest, in the hope it would encourage the King to speak.

'No, he has been absent for some time. However, my valet was taken ill quite suddenly some months past, and d'Coucy offered to take his place. I was very grateful. It seemed the man had suffered a similar fate with his own family. He, too, had a brother who had upset him greatly, causing a painful rift. He told me he planned to hold a party, to celebrate the Christmas festivities, and send his brother an invitation. He explained it was a good way of offering an olive branch, without having to make any sort of apology.' Richelieu raised an eyebrow, before gently pushing the King to elaborate.

'What a fortuitous situation. And did d'Coucy suggest it would be a good way to heal the rift with Gaston?' The King shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

'I seem to recall that he may have mentioned the Queen's upcoming birthday. He thought a party would be cheerful at a rather dull time of year, and I believe he did mention my brother in passing.' The fact Louis would not make eye contact with the Cardinal, told him all he needed to know. His brain was racing ahead, trying to decide if this d'Coucy was in league with Gaston, or just a meddling old man.

'Will the Baron be joining us for her Majesty's party?' Louis looked puzzled for a moment.

'No, I believe he has been called back to his estates in the country.' Brightening again, he added:

'I suppose he has his own festivities to prepare for.' He beamed at the Cardinal, as though all was well, and he could now go about his day without concern, which was far more than could be said for the First Minister. He bowed low to the King and begged his forgiveness, but he had pressing matters which he must deal with.

As he strode along the corridors to his office, he yelled for a Red Guard.

Sealing a missive with wax, he barked at the soldier in front of him. 'Take this to Treville immediately.' As the soldier left, Richelieu paced up and down the floor. Though the Musketeer Captain and he rarely saw eye to eye, this time they would need to work together to undo whatever mischief was being created.

Aramis had checked upon both men. Montmorency was now talking sense once more, though he was tired and had decided to remain in his room rather than join in the night's entertainment. So, too, had the Viscount, who was still pale and complained of headaches. Aramis had provided medicine to help his head and aid sleep. The man was grateful and was asleep before the Musketeer had left his room. Re-joining Porthos once more, the two men decided that a check on Gaston was next on their agenda.

'I take it the party has started?' the big Musketeer grinned, as strains of an orchestra reached their ears. Aramis smiled.

'So it appears, mon ami. Perhaps we should go down and see if his _Pettiness_ is in attendance?' Porthos laughed.

'Yeah, and I don't suppose your decision has anything to do with our beautiful hostess, or her friends?' The big Musketeer slapped his friend on the shoulder as Aramis attempted to look surprised at Porthos' insinuation. They made their way along the myriad of corridors and followed the sounds of music slowly getting nearer.

Milady had been forced to think on her feet, her wardrobe had not contained a ball gown, as dancing had definitely not been a part of her agenda – but then neither had many things!

She had left Garrard and slipped out into the snowy afternoon. There were few people around, and those that were had their heads down, going about their business as quickly as possible. It would be dark soon, and no one wanted to be outside on such a night. She quickly located her objective; the dressmaker's sign was swinging wildly in the wind. A light shone dimly in the recesses of the building. It was doubtful that they expected trade in the current weather, and especially at this time of night. Looking around, she made sure her hood protected her face before she knocked hard upon the door. She stood waiting. There was no one around now, and the small side street was silent. Then a candle flickered in the shop's interior and an older woman, shoulders bent, made her way toward the knocking. As she opened the latch, she lifted the candle, almost blinding her customer. Noting the quality of the visitor's clothing she beamed, revealing some rather dubious false teeth.

'Do come in, Madam. What a terrible night to be kept on my doorstep. What is it you require?' Milady stepped into the gloom of the small room, the candle doing little to light their way.

'I have been invited to a ball, and I am afraid my travelling trunk has been delayed. I have nothing to wear and hoped you might be of assistance.' The woman pondered over the stranger's request and slowly shook her head.

'When would you need it for?' she asked, her voice lacking confidence. Milady smiled, as though afraid to put her requirements into words.

'Tonight, I am afraid. Please say you have something, I would be devastated to miss the ball, I have been looking forward to it for months.' As she beseeched the woman with her catlike, green eyes, the woman nibbled her lip nervously.

'Come with me.' She led Milady into the back parlour, where fabric and pins were scattered everywhere. Dresses in various states of completion hung from hooks, and on the dressmaker's dummy, hung a particularly beautiful dress of dark, blood red velvet; frothy cream lace hung from the sleeves and a row of small pearls edged the low-cut bodice. Other than that, there was no other trim or show of extravagance – the gown was simple and elegant. Milady purred at the sight of the garment.

'That is beautiful,' she breathed. The old woman cast her eyes at the dress, shaking her head.

'It is for a valued customer. She is to be engaged and wishes to wear the dress for the announcement.' Milady looked again at the dress. The thought of it being worn by some lovelorn girl made the blood freeze in her veins. Walking around the dummy, it was clear that the dress was complete, and the fit would be perfect. Making up her mind, she walked slowly back to the dressmaker, who was muttering to herself as she pulled gowns from inside crammed wardrobes.

Slowly, Milady peeled off her gloves. The seamstress was occupied, removing the cover from a gown. 'This was never collected and is about your size, though it is not the current fashion. Still…' The seamstress didn't hear the stealthy approach, just the sudden overwhelming scent of jasmine, as a heavy object came crashing down upon her temple. Silently, she fell to the floor, unseeing eyes staring in a state of perpetual surprise.

Milady smiled, wiping the fabric weight upon her petticoats before replacing it back on the shelf. Dragging the woman over to the edge of the cutting table, she lifted her beneath the arms, wiping blood from the gaping wound upon the corner of the table; before arranging the body upon the floor. An oil lamp sitting on the shelf offered the perfect solution. She spilt a little oil upon the floor, then bent to lay the lamp by the woman's head. Hesitating for a second, she picked up the dead woman's hands, carefully examining the forefingers. The one on the right bore the callouses caused by many years of using cutting shears. Satisfied that the dressmaker had been right-handed, she placed the lamp by her outstretched fingers, giving it a hard bang on the stone floor, smashing the glass.

Standing back, she assessed her efforts. Impressed, she smiled a smug smile. The old woman, in a bid to carry her lamp, had slipped on the spilt oil and caught her head on the corner of the cutting table. A terrible shame. Turning away, thoughts of the corpse now forgotten, she lifted her prize from the dummy. Finding a suitable portmanteau, she folded the dress carefully. Back in the front of the shop she found drawer upon drawer of fripperies. Helping herself to whatever she needed, she placed those in the bag too. Pulling her black gloves on once more, she blew out the candle and closed the door. Locking it, she pushed the key between the poorly fitting frame and walked off into the night, her thoughts now on preparation for the ball. All things considered, that had gone very well indeed.

When Garrard knocked upon her door she was ready. The dress was perfect, her creamy skin echoing the pearls and lace at her wrists. The small strands of gems she had availed herself of, were intertwined in her dark hair which was piled high upon her head. Her deep red cloak draped her pale face, itself like a small pearl amidst a crimson pool of blood. She opened the door and smiled. It was apparent he had made an effort. For a moment she wondered if his story could have been true, an idea she dismissed just as rapidly. He appraised her slowly and smiled his appreciation. Together they descended to the room below and stepped out into the gusting wind. A carriage awaited them at the door, the driver's lantern giving off the smallest glow of light. As flakes of snow danced once more in the high winds, he helped her inside, tucking a rug over her lap. Taking the opposite bench, he tapped on the roof, indicating that they were ready to depart. The drive would take some time, and she doubted he would give much away, but then she had never shirked a challenge.

Treville strode through the palace, his mood dark. He did not appreciate being summoned by the First Minister as though he were one of his minions. The weather was foul, flakes of snow whipping through the air in the increasing wind. He ran his hand through his hair, damp despite his hat; large flakes had thawed upon his shoulders and his cape felt cold and heavy. All in all, he could have done without being bidden to the Louvre at such an hour. He knocked upon the ornate door and, hearing the Cardinal's abrupt _enter_ , he went in.

'Ah Treville. You took your time.' Richelieu smiled – as usual his expression was as warm as ice.

'What do you want? It is late and the weather foul. I hope it is important.' The Cardinal indicated the Captain should be seated, and poured a glass of wine for them both. When Treville had replaced his glass upon the table, the Cardinal began.

'It has come to my attention that the entire idea of a party, and Gaston's subsequent invitation, was dripped into the King's ear by his temporary valet, the Baron d'Coucy.' He watched Treville's face as it changed from irritated, to surprised, finally registering horror at the enormity of the news.

'You mean to say, someone has been behind the whole scheme from the beginning? How long?' Richelieu stood and began pacing backward and forward.

'I am not sure, I had to elicit the information from the King carefully. He began to suspect he may have miscalculated, and was loath to give too many details. I have made enquires and his usual valet was taken ill very suddenly toward the end of July. D'Coucy remained in the position until the end of October, the original valet having made a remarkable recovery. D'Coucy has now returned to his estates and will not be available to attend the party. Perhaps rather too convenient.' Treville looked furious.

'All far too convenient. I knew something was wrong. The whole plan was madness from the beginning. They have had months to plan ahead, and we have no idea what measures are already in place.' Richelieu sat once more, placing his fingertips together against his narrow lips.

'I have sent someone to the Baron's estate to find out what he knows. It may help, though from what I know of the man, I doubt he is the brains behind this debacle. Have you any news from your Musketeers… and their convict friend… as to Gaston's imminent arrival?'

'Athos is not a convict!' Treville growled. The Cardinal simply shrugged he enjoyed inciting the Captain's anger. 'I have heard nothing. The weather has been atrocious, and if it were not for the King's bidding, I would not have sent my men on any such mission in these conditions.' Richelieu shook his head and tutted.

'That's the trouble with pretty soldiers – not much use when the going gets a little arduous. You should hire real men Treville.' The Captain gritted his teeth and refused to be baited.

'My men can handle any conditions, and well you know it. However, journeys attempted during weather such as this. are madness, neither coach nor horse can be guaranteed safe passage.' He calmed himself and considered the state of play. 'I will begin enquiries into every baker, cook, gardener and footman that has been hired to cover the event. We will have to wait until your… envoy returns from the Baron's estate and see what news he brings.' With that, Treville placed his hat upon his head and turned to leave. 'I take it you will keep me apprised of any developments?' he said. Richelieu gave his habitual untrustworthy leer and nodded.

'Of course, Captain. As soon as I receive any news, I will share it with you.' Treville gave the wily fox a curt nod and left the room, balling his fists as he walked down the corridor.

This whole event was a disaster. His best men were somewhere – probably snowed in – deep in the French countryside, with a suspected traitor. On top of that, Richelieu was his only source of information, which meant he would be the last to know anything, and probably the one to ultimately take the blame should anything go wrong. No wonder his head ached.

Aramis and Porthos had discovered the source of the music. Hundreds of guests were crammed into an enormous ballroom, candles flickering from huge candelabras around the walls, and feathers, lace, diamonds and jewels fluttering and sparkling in a riotous sea of colour. The extravagance was worthy of a royal extravaganza. Footmen carried trays of wine; unlike the English, who only served watered-down alcohol and ratafia at their events, the French would never serve anything less than the finest vintage. Deciding to take their host at her word, the two Musketeers each took a goblet of red wine from a laden tray as it glided past. Whilst sipping the rich liquid, their eyes scanned the room for signs of Gaston.

'If you are looking for your charge, he is still in his rooms. Apparently, his evening clothes are still on the coach.' Mademoiselle d'Angennes smiled benevolently at the two men, with just the tell-tale sign of amusement at Gaston's predicament. 'He may not come down at all.' She opened her eyes wide, as if this would indeed be a disappointment, but mischief danced in those deep pools of blue, indicating she was anything but disappointed.

She noticed the two men shift their focus to something over her shoulder and turned to see what had distracted them. Athos had just walked into the room. He cut a swathe through the crowd, as though they were not there at all, though the expression upon his face was probably enough to make them scatter. His demeanour was cold, and had he suddenly called for a footman to wait upon his needs, Aramis would not have been in the least bit surprised. Indeed, if he had not been dressed as a soldier, then the presence he emitted would have suited the rank and occasion of those nobles present. Mademoiselle d'Angennes was also watching his approach, a small smile hovering around her lips. As he reached the group, Athos looked from one to the other, trying to assess if something was amiss.

'Have I missed something?' he asked, his delivery as deadpan as they had come to expect. They smiled and shook their heads.

'Gaston is sulk…,'Aramis rose both brows, and ran his hands through his hair, aware of what he had been about to say. Julienne laughed, a warm throaty sound, and touched the Musketeer lightly on his arm.

'Do not worry, Monsieur Aramis. You are invariably correct, and he is indeed sulking in his room. Though I do hope you do not receive the blame for his lack of wardrobe.' Athos snorted at this insight into Gaston's mood. He had been aware they had left much of the man's belongings on the coach, as there was only so much the horses had been able to carry for him and his two injured companions. Julienne looked toward Athos again, smiling. Reaching out, she placed her hand upon his arm. 'Ah, Monsieur Athos, I do believe I can hear the beginnings of the minuet. I am sadly lacking a partner, and this, after all, is my ball.' Athos looked terror-stricken and, if it had not been quite so amusing, Aramis would have stepped in to save his friend. But if he was honest, he considered it a small test. Athos had finally found his voice, but Julienne was not listening. She did, however, divest him of a brace of pistols and hand them to a beaming Aramis. 'I do not think he will be needing these,' she said. Porthos glanced at the grinning Aramis, frowning as he spoke.

'She don't know 'im very well then does she? Do you think he can dance?' Aramis, who was enjoying this all far too much, shrugged his shoulders.

'Let us find out, mon ami.'

The minuet was a dance that demanded focus, control, and spatial awareness of both the participants and the onlookers, all to achieve an air of unaffected ease and nonchalance. The dance graced the beginning of every formal ball and was led by the highest-ranking couple. Most of the grander nobility were currently attending the Queen's party, so Julienne was within her rights, as hostess, to set the dancing in motion. Her choice of partner, however, was causing quite a stir, though the two Musketeers doubted she was a woman who cared much for etiquette or public opinion.

As the music began the couple stood in the centre of the floor. This dance was a lone display, with each partner then urging a new couple to take to the floor at the end, and so the dancing would begin. Athos and Her Ladyship bowed and curtsied low. If Athos were concerned, he did not show it. In fact, his face registered nothing at all. Only the clenching and unclenching of his fists gave any indication as to the strength of his emotions.

When Julienne had suggested he dance, Athos had been completely caught unawares, dancing being the furthest thing from his mind. As a result, he had been slow to offer any resistance, and by the time he had regained his senses, the lady herself had cut him off, refusing to listen. Never had he felt quite so overpowered by a woman. As they walked onto the dance floor, his heart pounded, and he wondered if he should not have drunk the bottle of red wine that had been left in their room – it had been of good quality and he had not drunk wine of its ilk in some time. He could not remember the last time he had danced. He had not danced with _her_ , at least not formally; they had never attended any event together as man and wife, preferring their own company and entertainments.

The couple began to revolve around each other, moving in intricate turns about the room, and he was surprised to find how easily the steps came back to him. It had been his mother who had insisted he have a dancing master, whilst his father had taken care of estate management and his formal education. She had pointed out that, as a Comte, he would be required to attend court and other social functions, where dancing would be a requirement. After that, he had to excel, as he was expected to do with everything else, he was forced to endure. Every time he made a misstep or tripped over an intricate move, his father would hear of it from one of his spies amongst the staff, and the young Viscount would subsequently suffer in some way for it. Loss of time with his fencing master, or privacy to spend time on his horse – all the things his father knew he enjoyed far more than his studies or estate business.

When the steps allowed the couple to come within speaking distance, Julienne spoke, her smile inferring a hidden agenda.

'You do not appear to be enjoying yourself, Athos.' She tilted her head to look up to him, whilst he lowered his eyes but did not adjust the angle of his head, holding it high, chin stubbornly set.

'It is not my preferred occupation, Mademoiselle,' he drawled. She smiled, and they glided apart. Athos moved with the same grace and confidence as he did when wielding a sword – in reality, there was little difference to him, as both were the combining of a series of steps toward a given end. However, he preferred a blade in his hand, with first blood as the reward, as opposed to the calculated games of an ensnaring a female. First blood was far less terrifying.

He had risked a quick glance in the direction of the two Musketeers, and noted the shocked expression upon Porthos' face and the broad grin upon Aramis'; there would be time to take his revenge, and the fact he had already finished up the rather fine wine was a good start.

The partners came together once more and again she spoke, though now her voice held a more serious tone.

'I thought if I danced with you, I might remember where we had met before. I have danced with most of the men that I have found attractive.' She awaited his response, but if she expected him to be flattered, she was mistaken. On the contrary, he looked almost bored, but his reply was courteous, if not rather arrogant.

'Again, I must insist on your error. We have never met, I have never moved in such circles.' Her smile faded and she appraised him as they again separated.

'Your dancing tells a quite different story,' she cut in. Athos looked her in the eyes for the first time, the dance about to end.

'At the age of seven, I was also taught how to parry, lunge and riposte with a blade, informed that I should endeavour to excel at whatever I did. However, I have found the latter far more useful and purposeful. Now if you would excuse me.' He bowed low over her hand and escorted her to the edge of the floor, before stalking from the ballroom.

Aramis and Porthos had watched the couple walk out into the centre of the floor. Those watching, whispered behind their fans, agog at the woman's lack of protocol. At first, Aramis had begun to doubt his motives, and hoped he had not let Athos walk into a disaster, though he doubted the man would have let himself be led into something he could not handle. He had considered it an interesting test into the man's background. After all, not many men could handle an intricate dance like the minuet – the performers approached and withdrew from each other in a display of courtship, grace, skill and power. Aramis was not surprised at Athos' prowess, it was as he had suspected, though he kept that to himself. Porthos on the other hand was astounded.

'Who knew? I never had him down as a dancer, not unless he had a sword in his hand, that is. He really don't look happy. I bet she wished she had never asked.' Aramis smiled and patted his friend on the arm.

Aramis scanned the guests once more, taking in the gossips and gawping crowd. His eyes rested on a particularly beautiful woman wearing a blood red gown, her skin as pale as milk, dark hair piled high upon her head. She followed every move of the dancing couple through narrowed eyes, not breaking contact for a second. The Marksman smiled and shook his head, he had way underestimated Athos' affect upon women. More fascinating still, was that Athos was completely oblivious.

As the dance reached its conclusion, other couples headed onto the floor, and the two Musketeers watched in consternation as Athos left the room, face like thunder. Reaching the top step, he paused for a moment, scanning the room once more, as though in answer to a call. Suddenly his face took on a stricken expression, and Aramis thought he would surely tumble down the staircase. As though afraid, Athos raised his arm to cover his eyes. Rubbing his hand across them, he looked out again into the sea of humanity crowded into the room, this time his search urgent and fearful. Not finding what he sought, he turned and fled from the ball, as though followed by the hounds of hell. Aramis and Porthos exchanged looks before bolting after him.

They caught up with their quarry sitting on the bottom step of the grand staircase. His face was pale, and beads of sweat were on his brow. Aramis was immediately by his side.

'What is wrong, mon ami? Are you ill?' Athos was struggling to breathe, and the two Musketeers were beginning to panic. As Athos looked at the two men, he frowned and placed his head in his hands before sweeping his hair away from his face. Shaking his head, he attempted a weak smile.

'I never liked dancing.' He rose from the stairs and resumed his usual businesslike tone. Neither man were fooled by his demeanour, but it was clear from the way he had closed them out that he would not discuss it further.

'Why is Gaston not here?' Porthos looked surprised to find Athos had missed the mewling prince.

'How d'ya know he ain't?' He grinned, attempting to lighten Athos' mood. Athos glowered at the big Musketeer and gave a blistering response that made Porthos take a step back.

'Because if he had, protocol would have demanded she dance with him, and I would not have been subjected to such a fiasco!' This was one of the few times the two Musketeers had witnessed Athos become angry but, like all his strong emotions, it was swift to emerge and equally as swift to die away.

'I am sorry, it was not your doing. I simply do not like the attention,' he said. In part, that was true. He had been terrified she would remember the young Viscount she had danced with at the King's May Ball so many years ago. He had always been awkward around women, whilst they had taken his reaction to be arrogance and disdain. This, in turn, had made him even more popular, and so even more introvert. His parents had not been impressed with his behaviour – though that was nothing unusual.

He remembered Thomas, who though still young – in fact this had been his first ball – had laughed and flirted so beautifully. The golden-haired boy who lit up a room, and his dark brooding older brother, who terrified anyone brave enough to risk striking up a conversation. He would have been incredulous if anyone had told him just how attractive that brooding young man had been. Still, she had not remembered him, but it could only be a matter of time, because if she did not remember the dancing, she may well remember the kiss they had shared beneath the cherry blossom.

Suddenly there was a sharp cry from the floors above, 'Cutthroats! Murderers! Come quick!'Going by the sound of the voice, it had been a serving wench who had screamed. The three men bounded up the stairs two at a time. As they raced toward the screaming woman, they realised that they were heading toward Gaston's apartments. Lying in the middle of the landing was a footman, his unseeing eyes glued to the ceiling, the oozing red line upon his throat testament to his end. Aramis peeled the young girl away from the corpse and sent her down to get help. Athos pushed open the door, to find Gaston standing on the far side of the room brandishing a chair.

'Where have you been? I could have been murdered in my bed! Is it not bad enough that your bungling has meant I must be confined to my room for lack of appropriate attire? Now you go off and enjoy yourselves, leaving me to fend for myself. I shall see to it that you all lose your commissions for this!' Athos raised his hand to silence the tirade.

'I apologise, Monsieur. I can assure you that we were scouring the Château to ensure there were no threats to your person. There are many guests present tonight. Now, if you are unharmed, I suggest you lock your door and make good use of that chair. Place it beneath the knob and do not open the door again unless one of us requests you do so.' Surprisingly, Gaston nodded, saying no more as Athos left the room. The Major-domo had now appeared and was dealing with the dead footman. Athos waved at the other men and they began to make a systematic search of the corridor. Nobody could have descended without having been seen by the three men at the foot of the stairs, so up they went.

They had searched thoroughly and found nothing. On the landing, where their own room was located, they decided to split up and search the other areas of the Château, but it was like looking for a needle in a very large haystack. Unless the murderer was covered with blood and still holding the dagger, it was unlikely they would be discovered.

Athos stood still for a moment opposite their room. The door was slightly ajar; something told him to be wary, his body tensed, and he could feel his heart beating steadily in his chest. Though the corridor was silent, something told him he was not alone.

She stood in the alcove behind the heavy curtain, and listened as booted steps approaching rapidly.

'I will take this corridor. Porthos, check the kitchens, Aramis, the state rooms.' Her heart skipped a beat. Of course, it had to be _him_. Why could it not have been one of the Musketeers? She hardly dared breathe, as she stood motionless, invisible and yet so transparent. She heard the steps coming closer.

The door of the room! Had she closed it? If it was ajar, he would surely notice. She hardly dared to take a breath, he was only the other side of the curtain; just a flimsy drape between them. She could smell his scent. Cedarwood and leather. The cedarwood was familiar, but leather, that was a heady new addition. Risking a small peek around the screen, she inhaled deeply, not realising just how close he was standing.

Her hand found the dagger secreted within the folds of her gown. Now, she could do it now. What? Stab him in the back? No, that would not suit her needs. Tap him innocently upon the shoulder, then thrust it into his unsuspecting heart as he registered the shock of her presence? No. Her hand left the dagger where it was. Not now, not yet. Without purpose, the same hand now hovered in the air. If she reached out, she could touch him, her hand in his hair, upon his neck, feel the thrumming of his pulse – the beat of his heart. If her own heart had been beating rapidly before, now it was racing. The war inside her was raging between hate and lust – yes, she called it lust, she would not elevate it to love, she would no more admit to that.

She had bedded many men in her life, before and after him. Some she had enjoyed, but most had been purely business. She was not proud of her deeds, but neither would she allow herself to be judged by others' standards; she did what was necessary, to survive. But Athos, he had been the only one who truly fed her needs. The only one who had been man enough to match her desire. She could tell herself she hated him, and she truly did, but to have him _so_ close, _so_ near that she could touch him, was purgatory. Within arm's reach, the promise of a passion she had not experienced since that last day, and doubted that she ever would again – it was a temptation almost too great.

Athos moved. Turning slightly, she could see his proud profile. Tilting his head, he frowned, then sniffed the air. _M_ _y God_ _,_ _the Jasmine!_ She had dabbed on the perfume which had belonged to her latest victimin liberal quantities, and he recognised the aroma. What if he turned? Could she _distract_ him? Or would the decision to kill him be taken out of her hands? He sniffed again, and a small moan issued from his mouth. The sound of that moan almost undid her, but it was not a moan of want, it was the sound of despair. When he called her name she nearly cried out.

'Anne, for God's sake leave me in peace, leave me be… it was my duty… I had no choice.' She heard his words and her heart froze over once more. Duty? Killing the woman he had promised to love for eternity, pledging to let nothing come between them? He had killed her because it was his _duty_. She would never understand his sense of honour. She had thought it so admirable in those early days, her knight in shining armour – if only she had known it would turn on her so absolutely. Her hand stroked the hilt of her dagger once more and, drawing it from its sheath, she bought it aloft. _Duty_ , how had she become his _duty_? From the woman he had taken willingly, and passionately, wherever and whenever he could, to become a mere obligation. Her eyes narrowed and she took a deep breath, as the dagger poked at the fabric between them.

'Athos, here, quickly!' Porthos, the big musketeer shouted, and Athos moved. One moment his presence had been all consuming, now the scent of him was all that remained.

She rent the fabric before her, the cloth splitting asunder with ease. Anger and need converging, a low growl emerged from her throat and she sank to the floor. She noticed a bubble of crimson upon the white skin of her wrist. The dagger had pricked the tender skin as she had submitted to her frustration. She slowly licked the drop of blood with her tongue, her eyes narrowed, and she stood slowly to her feet. Sheathing the dagger, she took a deep breath.

In command of herself once more, she stalked along the corridor and disappeared into the maze of passageways that led back to her room. With the taste of blood upon her lips, she made herself a promise. The time would come, and he would rue the day she became his _duty_.


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter 24

Aramis awoke in the early hours. It was part of a soldier's nature to awake without assistance if he had a duty to perform.

Darkness pervaded his senses, the fire now a mere glow, and the candles long extinguished. He experienced a moment of confusion. Over the last few days, he had awoken in a strange variety of places, and his senses were on the alert. The sky outside the window was still dark, the twinkling stars indicating a clear night, and subsequently a freezing start to the day. Without a blazing fire, the temperature in the room was now extremely chilly, the dying embers inadequate to ward off the penetrating winter weather.

Though unsure of the hour, he sat on the side of the bed. He was due to relieve Athos at two, and he felt sure that hour had already passed. Before they had retired, the swordsman had been in a strange mood – even for Athos. In fact, if Aramis had not fought and worked alongside the man, he would have said he was afraid.

Silently, he dressed and slipped quietly from the room, leaving Porthos snoring soundly in his bed. Once in the gloomy corridor, Aramis found himself shivering – with no heating, and only the low flicker of dying candlelight, the air was frigid.

He made his way along the oppressive passageways, where the shadows loomed and shrank in the wavering glow. More than once, the sharp-eyed marksman gasped and reached for his weapons, as apparitions ebbed and flowed in the periphery of his vision. At last he turned the corner which led to Gaston's apartment. The petty prince had insisted upon this suite, rambling on about childhood memories. Bored with his antics, his hostess had finally agreed, and some poor lesser mortal had had to remove themselves elsewhere.

Aramis paused for a moment, then spied Athos hunched on the floor outside the room. His legs were drawn up, his hands clasped around them, his head sunk upon his knees. For a moment, Aramis thought Athos was sleeping, until he heard the man sigh deeply, raising his eyes to the ceiling. Aramis moved and Athos' head snapped round, hand flying to his dagger. As soon as he recognised the smiling Musketeer, he quirked a brow and greeted him quietly.

'My aim with a knife is highly reliable.' Aramis grinned even wider.

'Perhaps next time you would prefer it if I sang a song?' Athos snorted.

'I have heard you sing. As I said, my aim is highly reliable.' He gave Aramis a sidelong glance and the merest twitch of the lips. The marksman sank down beside Athos and placed his hand upon the man's arm. He felt Athos stiffen, still uncomfortable with any physical contact, and he had to wonder what could possibly have transpired to engender such emotional discomfort. They sat in companionable silence for several minutes before Aramis spoke.

'I suspected you had forgotten to wake me, so I came to seek you out.' He glanced at the man to gauge the effect of his inference. Athos did not react immediately, but stared at the walls opposite where the candles sputtered and fought to stay alight. Athos' reply, when it finally came, was not what the marksman had expected.

'Do you ever see those who should not be there?' Athos spoke quietly, his voice lacking his usual confidence and assertion. Aramis considered his response carefully.

He could have feigned ignorance, and asked Athos to clarify the remark, but he had his own demons who, even now, occasionally haunted his nights; he understood exactly what the swordsman meant.

He remained silent for a while, trying to compose an answer in his head. Staring at nothing in particular he began to speak.

'Two years ago, not long after Porthos joined the regiment, a group of Musketeers were sent on a training mission to Savoy. It was winter, the weather much as it is now. We arrived late in the morning and set up camp. The conditions were difficult, but we ran drills and exercises until late in the afternoon. By then, the light was beginning to fade, and it was cold, so cold.' He faltered for a minute, his voice trembling. Athos gave him time to collect his thoughts. As if suddenly remembering where he was, Aramis continued.

'We lit the fires and ate our supper, everyone was content and in good spirits – apart from being cold. Some of the soldiers there were still boys – one of our number, Jean Pierre, was only 17. We teased him for his lack of beard, he took it in good part; he was a promising soldier. Several hours later his dead and frozen eyes were staring up at me from out of the snow – he was never to fulfil that promise.

'They came in the early hours. I was lucky. Just about to relieve those on watch, I was awake and alert – not that it was enough. We fought bravely but were outnumbered and taken by surprise. We were on a training mission, we never expected to have to fight for our lives. Most of the men were saved the pain of battle, dying where they slept, never aware of their fate. Sometimes I wonder if they still walk the field, trying to understand what happened, unable to move on.' Again he stopped and Athos placed a hand upon his shoulder. Aramis nodded and resumed his tale.

'At some point I received a head wound. Marsak, my friend – or so I thought then – dragged me into the woods. He kept me there safe throughout the night, whilst he watched the slaughter of twenty good Musketeers, six of them little more than boys. When I awoke in the morning, it was all over. Marsak was stripping off his uniform, ashamed that he had done nothing to save his brothers, hiding like a coward in the woods and saving himself. He judged he no longer had the right to wear the uniform, so he left me – alone and injured – with twenty dead men.

'I crawled amongst the corpses, hoping to find someone left alive, but it was hopeless. Even closing the lids of the dead was impossible – their sightless eyes were frozen, perpetually awake and judgemental. In the end, I tried to cover them with their cloaks, anything to avoid their accusing stares. Why was I alive when they were dead?

'I sat in the snow for almost two days – no food, and no water apart from melted snow. At first I managed to keep the crows from feeding upon the dead, but for every one I scared away, ten more would land, mocking me in my efforts. Eventually, I simply covered my ears to their constant cries; I turned my back, refusing to acknowledge their feast.

'Late on the second day, the regiment finally arrived. At first, they thought everyone was gone. It must have been an appalling sight – twenty dead men, frozen stiff where they fell, food for the carrion crows. Where those accusing eyes had once stared toward heaven, blind, black holes now took their place – if they were the windows to the soul, then their souls would be for ever invisible.

'Eventually, Porthos found me, half frozen, half starved. He carried me out of there and for days he never left my side. Even when he had to resume work at the garrison, he would sit with me every night.

'Each night they came, shrieking and gawping, with their frozen eyes, beseeching me for help, wanting peace and answers. Answers I could not give. For months I hardly slept.

'And now? Now I hate the snow, and I hate the cry of a crow. Sometimes when I am wandering through the streets of Paris, I think I see Jean Pierre, smiling his shy smile, or Bouchier, with his red hair. Then I remember they are gone.

'I will never forget, but the dreams do not come as often, though they are worse when the conditions coincide.' He looked desolate for a moment, but despair was not in the Musketeer's nature and he gave Athos a gentle smile. The swordsman looked horrified.

'I am sorry, I had no idea. This journey must have been particularly difficult for you.' He watched emotions play across Aramis' face, as his memory wandered through recent events. Athos leaving them in the cave, rolling over his body in the snow – terrified in case those same vacant eyes stared back at him from the frozen ground. He shook his head and smiled, clapping Athos on the shoulder.

'You tend to keep a man busy! There has not been too much time to dwell upon the past.' Aware that Athos was heading into a well of guilt, Aramis continued, 'Does that answer your problem?'

Athos shrugged his shoulders and shivered slightly. The corridor was freezing, and a cold draft blew around their legs as they sat upon the wooden floor.

Aramis shifted his position closer to the brooding man, hoping the close proximity would offer both of them some much needed warmth – physically and for their ailing spirits. He waited for Athos to move away, protecting his personal space, but he sat still, only the lightest stiffening of his posture suggesting his vague discomfort.

Athos began to talk, his voice low and steady. When the man spoke this way, there was a richness to his tone that was almost mesmeric; Aramis wasn't surprised the old Duchess had enjoyed listening to him read. Heeding his every word, and hardly daring to breathe, Aramis realised this may be a crossroads in their relationship, and he was aware that the wrong reaction could send Athos running for cover once more.

'There was a woman…' He paused, as though that simple statement had been difficult to say aloud.

Athos did not know how he had reached this point, but he knew if he did not talk about his apparitions, they would soon drive him mad. He fought with his emotions and memories, searching for the right words to carry him past his defences and allow him to share his troubles. 'She died…' This time the pause was longer, and Aramis could almost feel the pain emanating from the desperate man. Treading carefully, he decided to help.

'Is it her that you see?' Much to his surprise Athos' head whipped round, the look in his eyes giving Aramis his answer, without the need for words. Athos nodded his head slowly, and he spoke once more.

'I saw her in the square, when I was receiving my punishment. She looked… sad.' Athos frowned as though something puzzled him.

'Would she not have been sad to see you in such a position?' Athos looked at Aramis, as though he didn't know how to answer the question. Finding the conundrum too difficult, he shrugged his shoulders,

'Once perhaps.' His mind drifted away again, as though the memories were too powerful to let him go. 'I smelt her perfume, jasmine. Just before I was hit in Toury, and again tonight, standing in the corridor. Am I going mad?' His expression begged Aramis to tell him the truth, his voice full of anguish. The medic nudged even closer and smiled sadly.

'No, mon ami. Our memories can take on a life of their own, when we are tired, or injured or just… vulnerable. They cannot hurt us.' Athos ran his hands through his hair. His tone was despairing when he whispered:

'Did you not tell me, that those nightmares which were still present when we awake, were the ones we had to fear the most?' Aramis regretted having used that phrase now. Had he have known at the time what he knew now, he would have expressed his advice differently. After all, he of all people knew how ghosts from the past could seek you out, unbidden and without warning. He had lost brothers, but for Athos, it was a woman – and that he had loved her was obvious. His next question created a response he had not anticipated.

'Are you sure she is dead?' The look of horror upon the man's face shocked Aramis, and he swore to himself at his own thoughtlessness. Athos merely nodded, as though unable to speak, but whatever was in his mind's eye was a vision too terrible to share. Aramis watched the tormented expression disappear as the familiar blank mask returned. Aramis had asked one question too many. Athos breathed deeply and calmed his breathing.

'I am sorry. I should have shared the wine.' Aramis was taken by surprise at the remark, and did not know quite how to react. It was clear the conversation was over, and just what he had learned from it would need to be considered at a later date.

Was Athos blaming the alcohol for his maudlin mood, or was it simply a way to change the direction of their exchange? He was not about to find out, for just then, Porthos – ever the practical one amongst them – came striding down the passageway carrying a lamp.

'Don't like this place. Corridors an' shadows everywhere, and it's freezin'. Oh, and someone drank all the wine!' He glared at the two men, and was surprised to see both of them smile. Aramis laughed, with Athos managing the slightest twitch of his lips. The big man was about to ask what the joke was, when the sound of smashing glass broke the stillness. The two men were on their feet in a second. Like statues, they stood and listened, attempting to locate the source of the sound. A distant noise penetrated the silence, but it was too far away to for them to make out what or where it was. Then a woman screamed. All three men exchanged a worried expression, before Athos bolted down the corridor with the two Musketeers right behind him.

She lay in her bed, sleep unobtainable. She had watched him with Julie, clearly recognising the expression in the woman's eyes; she knew what she wanted. But he had resisted, no, not _resisted_ , he had not cared at all. It wasn't _resistance_ , it had been pure rejection. Had she been jealous? Of course not. Who would be jealous of a woman attempting to bed the man responsible for your murder? You could dress it up as justice, honour done, but it was plain cold murder in the end.

What would have happened if they had had the opportunity to grow old together? Would they have become bored, no longer noticing when the other entered a room? Groaning at the sound of the bedroom door creaking open, abhorring what was to come? Maybe half the excitement lay in what could have been; the memory of those long passionate nights, the way they had looked at each other, the sheer headiness of desire. They had given into their urges, whenever they could, amidst the flowers in the meadow, which stroked her skin with their soft petals. On occasions when urgency and wild abandon fuelled their lust, they would slake their thirst for each other upon the floor, across a table – it didn't matter, they didn't care. No concern for duty or honour, just primitive need.

But they had been torn apart at the height of their passion. Was that why the bond was still so strong? When she had stood behind him that night, so close she could feel the heat from his body, hear his breathing, knew he was aware of her scent, she had been torn. Part of her had wanted to thrust her blade so hard, so deep, she could feel his skin upon her hand; to twist it until she felt his life blood ebb through her fingers as it pooled at her feet. Another part wanted to tear at his clothes and beg him to carry her to his bed, for one night, to feel once more; to remember what they had been before they had lost it all.

They had been victims of jealousy. Of a brother who had it all, but still wanted more – wanted what he could never have. Something that could never be learned, or bought, could not be charmed, or inveigled. Something that you could seek forever, but still could not attain. For that is what Athos had, and what Thomas desperately sought.

Thomas – the favourite son, with the ready smile and the charming wit. The one who knew what to say and when to say it. The one who watched and longed for what his brother had but did not know it. For no matter how Thomas curried favour, smiled and simpered, he was a shadow of his older brother and he knew it. But Athos did not. He was the one who was awkward, the one who would rather be in the shadows than the limelight, the one who hated small talk, games and secret agendas. Yet for all that, he was the one with the power – it emanated from him without any effort at all. His dignity, his honour, his quiet way – he was a hundred times the man Thomas would ever have been, but could not see it. And yet Thomas had loved him still.

When they had been together, she had believed that for a moment he had begun to realise his potential. Together they were magnificent, a force to be reckoned with. He had seized a new-found confidence and with it, the possibility for greatness. Thomas had withered and seethed at his brother's new-found glory; diminishing with every hour, as Athos' star ascended.

Then, just as their flame threatened to burn a place in the heavens, it was extinguished. In an instant, a moment of insanity. And the cold and dark that remained, _so_ cold _so_ empty, it had frozen both their souls, committing them to an eternity of isolation and desolation. They had been two beings that, together, could have taken on the world but, apart, were as devoid of purpose as one heart torn asunder – old and grey, like the ashes of their passion. And she hated him for it.

She had possessed it all, and now she had nothing. Neither would she ever possess it again, she knew that now. What they had had, was too rare to find again, too glorious. Like the intensity of an inferno, it had been too powerful, too consuming to last; eventually it would have burnt them alive, just like Icarus. But she hated the cold, and the dark. If she was ever to be free, he had to die. For to see him, to be near him, yet not to have him, gnawed at her being, like vermin at a corpse. It had to end. Though there would be no new beginning, there at least would be nothingness, and that was better than bitter longing. So, as she lay in the dark, hatred and desire doing battle with her reason, she plotted and planned his demise. Maybe not tonight, nor tomorrow, but soon.

Footsteps trod gently upon the wooden floor outside her door. In an instant she was alert, listening for any indication as to who might be awake at this hour. As stealthy as a cat, she slipped to the door, opening it just enough to enable her to see down the dimly lit corridor. Montmorency. Intrigued, she slipped out into the passageway and followed him. She had remained clothed, having bought only an empty trunk simply for appearances' sake – she had not intended her stay to be prolonged.

As she followed the man, keeping close to the walls in case he should turn, she wondered what had happened to Garrard. He had disappeared toward the end of the ball; not that he had proved particularly attentive during it. Perhaps she was about to find out. Montmorency descended the main staircase and led her through a series of empty and unlit rooms. Just as she reached the library, he closed the door and she was left alone in semi-darkness. Hidden half in shadow, illuminated only by the dying embers of the fire, Portraits of cold, haughty Dukes, Lords and Duchesses sneered at her from their positions on high, their condescension enflaming her ire.

She risked getting closer to the large ornate doors, and placed her ear against the wooden panelling. She could hear men's voices, but could not make out what they were saying. One of them sounded angry, whilst the others – two she suspected – were unsuccessfully trying to calm him. The voices came closer and she panicked. Searching for somewhere to hide, she hurried behind the velvet drapes shielding the windows. Hardly daring to breath, she heard the doors open and close, as she waited for the right moment to follow.

When she suspected the coast was clear, she slipped into the darkened room once more. The sound of the men's footsteps were now diminishing, and she needed to hurry. Reaching the doorway, she was astounded to see the two men disappear through a small door, secreted behind a bookshelf. A secret passage, of course. No doubt Athos and his watchdogs were keeping an eye on the prince's room. She hadn't credited Gaston with that much intelligence, but then he was sly, almost as wily as the cardinal – but stupid.

Poised to follow, her heart leapt into her throat as an arm snaked around her neck, and a hand was placed over her mouth. She froze, not knowing who her assailant could be. For the briefest moment she though it was _him_. But she knew it was not; though the hands were soft, there was something cruel in his grip that told her it was not her husband. Slowly, he turned her around. Eyes wide, she gazed up into the cold, hard face of Montmorency. She was frustrated with her own stupidity. She had assumed he had left with the others, she should have checked. The man placed a finger to his lips and attempted to smile. She nodded to show she understood, and he removed his hand from her mouth.

'So, Madam, what are you doing, prowling around in the dark on a cold night like this?' His chilling smile made her flesh crawl. He slowly appraised her appearance from top to toe, and when he looked up, there was an intent upon his face she had seen far too often. Attempting to smile, she feigned innocence.

'My apologies sir, I could not sleep and was attempting to find something to read. I thought the library was this way.' He smirked now and stroked her cheek.

'Couldn't sleep, eh? I am sure we could find something better to occupy your time than reading a book.' She simply didn't have time for this. If Athos and the two Musketeers appeared it would be a disaster, and after all, her orders were to delay them if possible. With a shudder that he mistook for desire, she gripped the hilt of her dagger and, as he leered closer, his breath warm upon her neck, she thrust the blade deep inside him, placing the other gloved hand over his mouth to dampen his cry.

When he lay upon the carpet, cold and still, she moved into action. A sound somewhere in the house alerted her to an approaching presence. With no time to plan anything complicated, she picked up an ornate chair and smashed the floor-length glass doors, hoping they would think this was the escape route. Satisfied she had left no trace, she ran from the room, secreting herself in the hidden passage, just as a woman's scream rent the air.

Athos and the two Musketeers rushed into the library, where they were greeted with a macabre sight. Julienne was standing next to an inert shape upon the floor, her night gown covered in blood, bloodied hands held in front of her face. She was as pale as the white gown she wore, and as the swordsman approached, she slid slowly to the floor, only his quick reactions halting her fall. Carrying her to the sofa, he observed Aramis kneel beside Montmorency's body. It was a fruitless exercise, his staring eyes told them that the man was already dead.

The wind outside had not died down, and the curtains now billowed into the room, bringing with it the frigid night air. Aramis looked up and shook his head. Several other guests, having heard the scream, ran into the room, stopping when they took in the lifeless body before them. Porthos ushered them from the library, and as the Major-domo appeared, somewhat dishevelled, he ordered brandy for Julienne.

Returning to the others he found her ladyship awake once more. Athos was kneeling at her side and talking quietly.

'What happened?' The woman looked shocked, her eyes were wide, and she couldn't form her words. As Phillipe bought the brandy, Athos took it from the tray with a nod of thanks and asked the man to see to the ever-increasing number of gawking guests. As the servant left, he closed the door behind him, offering them some privacy. Being shut in with a dead body was not doing anything to help the woman's nerves, and gulping for air, she swallowed the brandy. The shock of the liquor hitting the back of her throat seemed to be just what she needed and focussing on Athos she grasped his hand in both of hers.

'It was horrible. I could not sleep. I walked into the room and stumbled, I fell, and my hands held something soft and wet. My eyes focussed a little and I held a candle to the dying flames of the fire. That is when I saw… the blood upon my hands. I turned and there…' Words failed her, and she began to sob, clinging to Athos as though her life depended upon it. He looked over her shaking shoulders and summoned Aramis.

'Send for someone to assist her.' Aramis nodded and left the room. Julienne sobbed quietly for a short while and just as she was beginning to calm, an older woman arrived, identifying herself as Julienne's maid. Athos handed the shaken woman over to her servant, ordering her to put her mistress straight to bed. When they were alone once more the three men looked at one another.

'That's torn it,' Porthos stated, 'Gaston ain't gonna like this.' The other two men nodded in agreement and began to examine the room. Athos held back the fluttering drapes and examined the broken glass.

'It would seem the assailant broke the window and then made their escape.' Aramis came over to stand next to Athos.

'So why do you not appear convinced?' Athos frowned and looked around the room, before peering at the doors themselves.

'The key is still in the lock. Why would you risk waking guests by breaking the glass, when you could have let yourself out silently?' Porthos grinned.

'So you could make it look as though you had left, when really you were still here all the time.' Athos quirked a brow and smirked.

'Precisely!' All three men strode into the next room, which was now clear, Phillipe having persuaded most of the guests to return to their rooms. Athos walked over to the window, checking it too was locked. As he lifted the drapes, the perfume sent his sense reeling. Fighting for breath he held on to the frame, and in a low whisper he called out:

'Aramis...' The marksman hurried over to Athos, waiting for him to continue. 'Can you smell it?' The question was almost too quiet to make out, but the tone of desperation was clear. Aramis smiled softly.

'No, my friend, I cannot smell anything at all.' Athos closed his eyes and appeared to be in silent prayer. When he opened them again, he nodded and stalked from the room.

As Aramis watched the man leave he gave a long sigh, and prayed for God's forgiveness – but how could he have admitted that he, too, had smelt the strong scent of jasmine.


	25. Chapter 25

Chapter 25

So much had to be done before morning. The body of Montmorency was taken to a secure outbuilding, where the cold weather would preserve him until the magistrate arrived. With the lady of the house indisposed, Athos and the Musketeers had taken charge, for nobody else had come forward.

As he sat alone gathering his thoughts, Athos considered the recent happenings. He would not be surprised to see a procession of coaches heading down the drive, once the guests discovered what had occurred during the night – rats leaving a sinking ship. Then there would be the job of informing Gaston. Athos assumed that dubious task would fall to him, as it would appear out of place for Aramis to suddenly step in as liaison at this stage and might even make Gaston suspect that Athos was the guilty one.

It was almost dawn and, though the sky held no colour, it had begun to lighten, and it was not long before the heavens were streaked with the gold and pink of a new day – and what a day it promised to be. They were now only a matter of hours from Paris and, with no further delays, would arrive before midday. As the swordsman attempted to piece together the events of the previous night, he could not move past the scent of jasmine that had been hanging in the air. Aramis had denied that he had been able to smell the fragrance, but somehow Athos was not convinced; neither of the Musketeers were good liars – at least, not when it came to lying to each other. Athos may only have known them for a matter of weeks, but he had begun to recognise each of the men's strengths and weaknesses.

The two men in question were returning from the kitchen, where the cook had kindly prepared them an early breakfast. Carrying a tray each, the two men talked quietly as they slipped through the echoing passages.

'So, you're tellin' me that he's bin seein' a dead woman, and he can smell her perfume? On top of which, last night you smelt it too, but you told 'im you couldn't?' Porthos looked at his friend with scepticism. Aramis frowned, considering the synopsis Porthos had delivered; he could find no fault with it, which in itself worried him.

'Correct, mon ami. I do not know who she was, he did not say, and I was aware just how tenuous the conversation was already. When I asked him whether he was he sure she was dead… well the look on his face.' Aramis shook his head at the memory. 'Whatever happened, it tortures him greatly. But as you say, last night I, too, smelt the scent of jasmine.' The two men were silent for a second.

'It was a party, half the women there were probably wearin' jasmine; it's popular with those that can afford it,' Porthos offered in way of explanation. Aramis looked somewhat relieved.

'You are right, of course, and the room was probably the venue for several liaisons last night – which would explain its presence.' He nudged his friend's arm, earning himself a glare as wine split from the jug. Serious once more, Aramis continued: 'I am just not sure how to broach the subject with Athos again. When he considers a conversation over, he makes it very clear. He erects his barriers once more and shuts the world out.'

The man in question was sitting at the foot of the stairs as they approached, lost in thought. He looked up as he heard boot heels upon the marble floor and raised a brow on seeing the two trays and a beaming Porthos.

'Breakfast I presume,' he stated with the ghost of a smile. Athos rose and began to mount the stairs back to their room. There would be no rest now, but if he must ride without sleep – which did not bother him at all – he supposed he should appear to eat, for he knew Aramis would be monitoring his every move, especially after their conversation last night. He considered whether it had been a mistake opening himself up to the Musketeer. However, he trusted Aramis, as much as he trusted anyone at present; though by now, Porthos had no doubt also been enlightened, as Athos had not thought to tell the medic to keep the information to himself.

Once back in the privacy of their room, Athos withdrew to the window. He did not want to revisit that conversation and hoped neither of the other men would mention it. Aramis gave a short laugh.

'I have asked for a maid to wake Gaston with breakfast in an hour, so we have a little while before we have to handle that storm. Athos eat, do not think I have not realised you had no sleep last night. Eat!' Athos rolled his eyes and was sorry he was not a betting man – he would have just made a killing. He joined the Musketeers at the small table, and broke off a chunk of bread, nibbling at it as though it were poison. Aware of the two pairs of eyes watching him, he sighed and cut off a chunk of cheese. When he had consumed them both, he quirked a brow at Aramis as if to say _happy?_ But the medic simply smiled and tossed him an apple. Catching it with one hand, Athos bit into it – anything to keep Aramis quiet. Porthos was the first to voice the question out loud.

'So, who killed 'im then?' The other two men exchanged a glance, Athos shrugging his shoulders and Aramis shaking his head.

'Not Gaston,' Aramis stated. 'We were outside his room all night. I must have many enemies, it is always possible one of them took advantage of the situation.' Even to his own ears, his reasoning sounded thin. Athos spoke at last.

'We were not expected, they would have been very lucky indeed had we just landed in their laps. Montmorency had sustained an injury, why was he in the library at such an hour?' The other two men considered the question.

'He was meetin' someone,' Porthos declared. Athos replied:

'It would seem the most likely answer. Of course, it is possible we were expected by someone. With the ball in progress, it would not have been impossible for a stranger to slip inside for a rendezvous with Gaston; if indeed it _was_ Gaston behind the invitation all along. It will be interesting to gauge his reaction in the morning.' Aramis gave a chuckle.

'Interesting is certainly one way of putting it, mon ami. I do not envy you that task.' Once again, Aramis considered why it had fallen to Athos to be their mouthpiece with Gaston, and why he had shirked that role when they had entered the Château Rambouillet.

They did not have long to wait – the sound of a maid screaming had the three men on the run, as they headed toward Gaston's room. Luckily for the maid, having waited the hour, they had decided it might be a good idea to remove themselves closer to the Prince's apartment. Athos pulled open the door, to find a poor slip of a girl with Gaston's hands around her throat, his face a livid purple. Athos grabbed him, pulling his hands away and holding his arms at his sides until he had calmed down. The furious prince kicked out, catching Athos sharply in the shin.

'If you do that again, I will ask Porthos to knock you out.' Athos delivered the threat with a hint of steel in his quiet voice. Porthos cracked his large knuckles, and nodded his head, keeping his face as straight as he could manage. Gaston's eyes flew wide, all resistance gone. Having led the poor girl out into the corridor, Aramis now returned.

'She did not know of the connection and happened to drop the events of last night into her morning conversation.' Athos rolled his eyes and Porthos huffed. Gaston became agitated once more, but Athos let him go. As soon as he was let loose, Gaston wheeled around and tried to punch Athos in the face, but the irritated swordsman neatly side-stepped the attempt, sighing heavily.

'Why not sit-down, Monsieur? You have had a nasty shock. Unfortunately, you were informed of what had happened before we could do so with sensitivity. I am sorry.' For a brief time, Gaston went quiet; there was genuine sympathy in the swordsman's voice, and it calmed the prince for a moment. However, it was never going to last. Gaston began pacing up and down the room, running his hands through his thin curls.

'How can he be dead? He was fine when last I saw him. Was it his head wound?' Athos glanced at the others, obviously the maid had not described the events in detail. Taking a deep breath, Athos began to explain.

'You might wish to sit Monsieur.' He indicated the ornate chair beside the bed, but Gaston became agitated once again.

'I do not wish to sit and keep that giant away from me!' He eyed Porthos with fear and backed away from the three men. Porthos raised both of his hands in supplication and took a step backward, whilst Athos tried to soothe the situation as best he could.

'Porthos is here to protect you, he will do you no harm,' he said. 'The story would be best heard if you were less… agitated. I believe the maid bought you some wine, perhaps a drink?' Athos gestured to the tray, which, despite the mayhem occurring in the room, had remained intact upon the dresser. Gaston eyed the carafe and obviously saw some merit in the suggestion. Finally, he sat down and sipped from a goblet of wine. Athos began to tell the tale, as far as they understood it themselves.

'A little after three o'clock this morning, we heard a scream from downstairs, a woman. All three of us were stationed outside your room, to ensure you came to no harm.' This was not quite true but was better than telling him they wanted to keep an eye on him. Aramis noted how Gaston's eyes had narrowed and his expression had become slightly furtive. He watched the man intently as Athos continued.

'The woman screamed once more, and we were able to follow the sound to the library; where we found Lady d'Angennes. She was extremely distressed. Finding it difficult to sleep, she had entered the library to find a book, and in the dark she stumbled over something and fell. When she lit a candle, she realised she fallen over the body of Montmorency. He had been stabbed.' Gaston's face registered shock, then immediately his expression became secretive. He was silent, as if trying to decide how to continue. The three men waited, expecting another explosion. They were taken aback when Gaston spoke, calm and dignified.

'That is indeed terrible. Who knows what sort of people were taken on to help with the ball last night? He too was probably seeking reading material and came across a thief. I do hope it will not hold us up?' Gaston stood up, obviously trying to establish his superiority. A slight man, he was not as tall as either Athos or Aramis, and nowhere near as tall as Porthos, but he straightened his narrow shoulders, attempting to look as impressive as he could. 'I am the King's brother, and he is expecting me. We will not be delayed. I must speak to Luc, then we will set off at once.' The three men had expected this reaction at least, and were not about to argue. They, too, would be glad to hand the mercurial man over to Louis, to do with as he wished.

Whilst Gaston was calm, Athos took the opportunity to make a request. 'May I suggest we ride to Paris. I am aware much of your luggage was left behind, but it should be at the Louvre on your arrival. Another coach would delay us considerably. However, if you are are in agreement, we should reach the Palace by late morning.' Gaston looked thoughtful, then smiled.

'I believe that is the first sensible thing you have said. Indeed, make it so.' With that, he grabbed a silk banyan and left the room in search of the Viscount. All three men let out a breath, ready for what they hoped would be the final phase of their mission.

By the time the sun had cleared the horizon, the horses were prepared and waiting in front of the Château. The Viscount had leapt at the opportunity to stay behind and see to his friend's body, promising to deal with any enquires. Most of the guests had not yet risen, but those whose curiosity had got the better of them, had already decided the culprit must be one of the hired servants. An opportunist thief, helping themselves before they went home; murdering the unsuspecting victim, and then fleeing through the window, into the night. Nobody would look any harder for the protagonist.

The three men once again found themselves waiting for Gaston to appear but at least this time they were warm. Julienne descended the stairs. As she reached the hallway, she walked toward the three men. Though she addressed them all, as she spoke her eyes were on Athos.

'I apologise, gentleman, for my behaviour last night. I am afraid I have never… well, I have never seen a dead body before. You must have though me over-dramatic.' Aramis paused to see if Athos would answer. Though he gave no clue as to his opinions, Athos did indeed respond.

'My Lady, it was quite understandable. You had a terrible shock. We are sorry to have to leave you to deal with the aftermath, but we must ensure the Duke arrives in Paris in time for the celebrations.' Though he placed no emphasis on his words. Julienne understood him completely. She smiled and stood a little closer.

'You need not apologise, I am quite sure he is in haste – he always left his toys for someone else to clear up. I hope your journey is comfortable and swift. Perhaps we shall meet again gentleman.' Turning back to Athos she spoke quietly, so only he could hear.

'I am sure we have met before Monsieur Athos. I _will_ remember – I never forget a handsome face.' Athos did not react to her words, but profoundly hoped she would not; he, like Gaston, would be extremely glad to depart. Luckily for him, Gaston chose that moment to grace them with his presence. Descending the final steps, he walked across the expanse of hallway and stopped abruptly beside Athos and Julienne. After making the lady a final bow, Athos stepped back. Gaston glared at him with undisguised dislike. Aramis' heart sank. He hoped Gaston would have no influence over the King for, if he did, Athos would never receive a commission.

'My Lady, your hospitality, it seems, has been rather lacking. Poor food, or even inferior wine, I could overlook – but murdering my friends?' He tossed his meagre locks and tried to look superior. Julienne simply smiled before she gave her sharp retort.

'Then perhaps it is fortunate you are leaving so soon; had you stayed but a few days more, there might have been none of you left at all.' She looked wide-eyed at the incredulous Gaston, who could not quite tell whether or not she was being genuine but decided he would not risk further dialogue. He already suspected the two Musketeers of seeking to hide their amusement and, as for the other one, he looked as arrogant and condescending as ever.

Marching from the Château, he offered no further acknowledgment; neither in the way of goodbye or thank you. It did not go unnoticed, and Julienne gave a low bow, murmuring:

'You are welcome, Gaston. _S_ _afe_ journey.' If the statement was heavily laced with sarcasm, the three men pretended not to notice. Removing their hats, they bade their farewells and marched out in the wake of the infuriating man.

Having hurried from the scene of her latest dispatch, Milady had stepped into the darkened passage. The tunnel was pitch black, and she paused briefly, trying to adjust her eyes to the darkness. She heard the running of booted feet and decided, vision or not, it was time to make her move. Feeling her way with both hands, she carefully placed one foot in front of the other. Gaston, and whoever accompanied him, were long gone. She had not travelled far, when she became aware of light filtering from somewhere just above her head. It was not light exactly, but rather a darkness that was not quite as severe as she was experiencing in this confined space. Slowly sliding her fingers higher up the wall, she found a small hole. Standing on her toes for a closer look, she realised what it was. Two small holes, close together, an eye-width apart in fact. Spy holes. She peered intently at what lay beyond; an alcove of some sort, like the one she had been hidden in when she had encountered Athos the night before, but as there was nothing significant to identify it by, she could not be sure what corridor it overlooked.

Moving on, she found several more of the ingenious openings, before eventually discovering an area she recognised – this was the corridor outside Gaston's room. Curious, she moved forward, her heartbeat increasing. Suddenly she found herself facing a dead end. She felt to her left and then to her right, her hands shaking slightly, and was relieved when she realised the tunnel had not ended but merely turned sharply. Once again, she moved one foot in front of the other, cautious in case she should be heard. When the floor disappeared beneath her feet, she had to stop herself from screaming, as she threw her weight backward to prevent herself from plummeting into a void.

Dropping to her knees, she felt along the floor – sure enough, it fell away just a few feet from where she was standing. As she reached further down, she found the floor once more – stairs, she was sure of it, indicating that the passage led downward after this. She stood once more and calmed her breathing. Raising her hands, she stretched out and found a small niche in one of the walls. Her skin crawled with anxiety as her fingers investigated the hole, and she could have cried with joy when they identified the flint and candle that had probably left there by some far-sighted member of the staff. Or maybe not…

Lighting it quickly, she held the small flame aloft and blinked, blinded at the sudden glare. She descended the steep stair case, only to ascend another one almost as quickly. Puzzled, she continued to step as silently as she could, for now she was certain she could make out the sound of people talking somewhere close by. Sure enough, as she reached the top of the stairway, she heard the voices clearly. They were coming from the other side of the panel, and there being no convenient spy holes, she laid her ear to the wall.

'I still don't see why I need to be there. If we cannot follow our original strategy, then this can be done without me.' _Gaston!_ The next voice took her slightly by surprise.

'We have discussed this. It will arouse suspicion if you are not present. And there is the question of succession. Who knows what would happen if you were not on hand straight away?' That voice, though she had not heard it often, was familiar. _Garrard_. He had abandoned her almost as soon as they had descended to the ballroom, and she had known he was up to something. His absence had suited her plans perfectly, but with the man offering no apologies or excuses, it had been obvious that she had simply been a convenient cover. A man after her own heart, had she not already lost it.

She listened again, but the speakers must have moved into an adjoining room, for their conversation was now muffled and incomprehensible. However, she had heard enough, a _question of succession_ – she needed to get back to the Cardinal, and quickly. As silently as she could, she retraced her steps back to the spy holes in the corridor she had recognised before. Placing her palms against the wall, she moved them around until she felt a small lever. As she lifted it gently, the wall opened outward, and she found herself in the silent passageway. It was still lit by the remains of the dying candles, though they would not last much longer. Wasting no time, she fled in the direction of her room.

Once inside, she glanced around. There was a small trunk in the corner which she had _appropriated_ from one of the guests at the inn. She had filled it with whatever she could find to make its weight believable. Opening the lid, she lifted out her travelling clothes. She changed rapidly, and as she laid the velvet dress inside the box, she sighed – such a lovely dress, such a waste. Locking the trunk she tossed the key out of the window. As she slid silently out of the room, she could hear doors opening and closing; the staff were beginning to move around, lighting fires and candles ready for those who chose to rise early. She needed to hurry.

With as much stealth as she had time for, she made her way to the green baize door in the hallway which led to the servants' quarters. If the staff were surprised by her presence, she chose to ignore them and, pushing her way past an astonished footman, she left through the outside door.

The morning was still grey, the sun having yet to make its way above the horizon, though the merest glimmer of a lighter sky showed in the distance. It was cold, and her breath came in great clouds as she breathed heavily. Checking no one was about, she ran in the direction of the stables, money at the ready just in case. She spotted a stable boy taking water to a stall.

'Help me please!' She held on to the lad's arm and squeezed a few tears from her eyes. 'My husband has come across me… in an unfortunate situation… and he is intent upon killing me. Please, you have to help me, I need a horse. I will leave it at the village and send it back with a groom.' The boy looked around in confusion. Annoyed at the delay, she considered slitting his throat, but it was too risky. Sighing inwardly, she tried harder. Tears sliding far too easily down her cold cheeks, she gave him her best pleading expression. She twitched her cloak aside and gave him a glimpse of white skin, and when he smiled and nodded, she almost groaned aloud – men were so easily manipulated. Instead she simpered.

'Oh, thank you, you have saved my life. But we must be quick, he could be here at any moment.' The boy stared around, terrified that he might see an enraged husband racing across the misty lawns. Satisfied there was none, he took her arm and led her into the darkness of the stables, which were warm and smelt of horses and hay. She waited impatiently whilst the boy saddled and prepared a brown mare. As he led the horse into the yard toward the mounting block she followed. Before she mounted, she leant forward and gave the boy a peck on the cheek. He blushed furiously. Excellent, they would have to threaten him with torture before he would betray her now. Without dallying further, she galloped away from the Château and toward Paris, as fast as her new steed could carry her.

Treville had checked, and double-checked, every new servant, valet, gardener or maid. Apparently, they all had a recommendation from someone at the palace already, or could find someone from the city to vouch for them. Frustrated, and tired of waiting to be sent for like some lackey, he headed toward the Cardinal's office. As he neared the door, a figure came out and walked in the opposite direction. _Rochefort_. Treville had watched the man in action several times since the First Minister had introduced him at court, and each time he had bowed and scraped to Louis, flattering and amusing the King at every opportunity. In particular, he had curried favour with the Spanish contingent, complimenting and sweet-talking the ladies whenever he could. Treville knew he was up to something but could not for the life of him decide what it might be.

He knocked loudly on Richelieu's door and the man called for him to enter. The Cardinal looked up and raised a brow at the sight of the Musketeer Captain.

'Ah, Treville, to what do I owe this pleasure?' Treville was in no mood for social niceties.

'Have you had news from d'Coucy?' he demanded. Richelieu smiled, gaining time in which to phrase his answer.

'No, he was not present at his estate when my men arrived. They were expecting him, however, and they feared he may have been delayed by the weather, though my men saw no evidence of this upon the road. We will have to try another line of enquiry. More to the point, where is Gaston… and your men?' Treville had been asking himself the same question. He hoped he had not made a huge miscalculation by sending Athos with the party, though every instinct he possessed told him he had not. Determined, he ensured that he was showing none of his misgivings – he would not give the Cardinal the satisfaction of knowing he was worried.

'They will be here on time – after all, we did tell them we did not want Gaston here until the last minute,' insisted the Captain.

'Indeed, well if he is much later, they will have followed your instructions to the letter – and from what I have heard of the two Musketeers you sent, that will be a novelty!' the Cardinal sneered. Treville refused to rise to the bait.

'See to it you keep me informed, Cardinal. And I will _see_ you at the party tonight.' He nodded, then swept from the room, his blue cape billowing out behind him. He never left an interview with Richelieu without wishing to punch him. He just hoped the day would come when he may enjoy the opportunity.

Gaston had taken off at a gallop and the two Musketeers looked at each other and rolled their eyes. They would have to rein him in, or the horses would have to stop and be rested far too soon; though if he _had_ galloped off into the distance never to be seen again, they would have been more than happy. Athos rode up alongside them. Aramis nodded toward the retreating figure up ahead.

'I suppose we should catch up with him?' he said.

Athos snorted, then stated, his tone verging on bored, 'He is trying to make a point.'

Porthos chuckled. 'And what point would that be?' Both Athos and Aramis looked at the big man with expressions of amusement; it was Aramis who answered.

'He is the King's brother, I couldn't possibly say.' Porthos laughed, but Athos had had enough.

'Just shoot him and let's go home. We will say it was an act of self-defence.' For a moment, the other two men looked at him anxiously. Athos shrugged.

'Much more of this and you will have to shoot me instead.' He dropped back, making it quite clear that this time he had no intention of riding off after the errant prince.

Aramis smiled at Porthos then asked, 'Was he joking?'

Porthos frowned, 'Not sure, but I'm worried he might have been serious… on both counts.' He began to laugh, and Aramis, sighing in defeat, spurred his horse forward to catch up with the idiot Gaston.

Whilst ensuring he did not endanger the Duke's pride, once Aramis had slowed him down, both he and Porthos flanked Gaston's sides. Behind them rode the soldier, Jean Luc, with Athos bringing up the rear – they were almost in Paris, but still something bothered him.

He continued to be plagued by the figure he had seen sitting in the corner of the room, on the day they had left the tavern at Toury, but he had no idea why. The man had not participated in the event, of even shown the remotest interest. And yet he continued to niggle Athos' subconscious. They had been riding in silence for several hours when Gaston spoke up.

'I never thought I would be so glad to be home.' Aramis and Porthos stared ahead and realised Paris lay in the distance, blanketed in a morning mist. The weather had turned particularly mild, and there was the faintest trace of fog shrouding the spires and buildings of the city. From this distance it appeared beautiful, almost dreamlike. Unfortunately, that was not the experience for many of its inhabitants, as Porthos knew only too well.

'It's a pity it don't look like that close up.' He narrowed his eyes, his face thoughtful.

'It is true, mon ami,' Aramis replied quietly. 'Many sad tales lie behind the façade of those beautiful buildings.'

'I would have thought it was the unwashed parasites that spoil the beauty of a great city,' Gaston scoffed. He looked smug, as if daring either of the Musketeers to argue with him. Aramis eyed Porthos with concern, knowing the man's background, he was worried he might feel obliged to defend their existence. However, though his face said he would like to knock Gaston from his horse, Porthos knew better, merely holding his reins that bit tighter and remaining tight-lipped. It appeared Aramis was the only man left who could bring himself to address the despicable man at all, and that was certainly not from personal choice.

It was with a glad heart that the four men rode into Paris. Gaston was not well-known amongst the masses, and Musketeers riding through the streets was an everyday occurrence, so they did not attract attention. It was only when they rode out on masse that the inhabitants took note, and that was generally more for fear of what lay behind the show of strength, than interest in the regiment.

When they arrived at the Louvre, Athos hung back, reluctant to follow the Musketeers and Gaston inside. Aramis turned and gave him an inquisitive frown. Athos shook his head.

'I think it best if I remain here. I will wait with the horses.' Aramis nodded sadly, it was probably for the best. Unfair, but sensible.

The two Musketeers followed the eager Gaston through the light and airy corridors, a pleasant change from the unnerving Château they had recently left behind.

As they neared the door to the throne room, Gaston's steps faltered. He paused before the doors and straightened his shoulders. Aramis stepped forward and spoke to the Musketeers on duty.

'It is alright, Monsieur is expected.' They nodded and left the way clear for the men to enter. As they walked into the room, all chatter ceased. Louis looked up and his eyes opened wide. He hesitated, unsure of how to proceed. His uncertainty, however, was unnecessary, for Gaston took matters into his own hands, prostrating himself before his brother and beseeching him:

'Brother, forgive me, I have behaved unforgivably. I do not deserve your good opinion, though I wish it above all things. Your invitation has shown you to be magnanimous and merciful. I offer my allegiance and devotion. My King.' Aramis and Porthos stood open-mouthed – that had been quite a performance! They half expected the Cardinal to applaud, though he, too, looked stupefied at the Duke's impassioned declaration.

Louis looked as though he were about to cry. Both Musketeers felt almost sorry for him; for they were in no doubt Gaston was lying through his crooked teeth.


	26. Chapter 26

Chapter 26

It was eleven o'clock on the morning of the party. Having fulfilled their duty, Aramis and Porthos had left the throne room just as Louis had embraced his brother. It would have been a touching sight – indeed, Louis was quite overcome with emotion – but both men were afraid it would all end in tears; just whose tears, they weren't yet sure.

Athos stood patiently holding the horses, whilst talking quietly to Roger. Sometimes Aramis wondered what he talked to his horse about during those quiet moments when nobody else could hear. He asked no questions, but it was clear he was intent upon finding out what had taken place. Clearly becoming impatient, when the necessary information was not forthcoming, he stood with hands upon his hips and, sounding somewhat annoyed, and demanded:

'Well?' Aramis smiled, he had wondered how long it would take for the man to break. He winked at Porthos before replying.

'Gaston has just publicly apologised profusely for his wrong-doings, and pledged allegiance to his King!' He raised a brow and looked at the swordsman. Athos merely rolled his eyes.

'I am not surprised. I suppose the King believed it?' the swordsman asked.

Porthos shook his head sadly. 'Yeah, poor devil, tears in his eyes and everythin'. Fell for it completely. Actually, felt sorry for 'im.' The other two men nodded in agreement.

'Louis can be rather naive, 'Athos stated, looking as though even he felt sorry for the man.

'I just hope that for once Gaston will leave Paris without betrayin' his brother's trust. Louis doesn't exactly have too many friends; he deserves to be able to trust his own brother.' Porthos was mounting his horse as he spoke and did not notice the expression that passed over Athos' face but, as usual, Aramis missed nothing. He realised that it was not the moment to pose any questions, but he would store the information away for a later date. _Brothers_ , there had to be a connection there somewhere; it was not the first time he had reacted to such a comment.

The three men cantered through the streets. Now they were home and their mission complete, the weariness began to settle in. Aramis and Porthos beamed as they rode under the arch of the garrison, always glad to have completed a successful mission in one piece. Athos, on the other hand, was not sure exactly how he felt. He, too, was happy to reach the garrison, but it also unnerved him. Since he had abandoned his manor, he had failed to make anywhere home, and was reluctant to make any new attachments. However, he realised that he was becoming too fond of this place and, in particular, the two men who had taken him under their wing.

Part of him hoped the King would still be angry with him, meaning that all hopes of becoming a Musketeer and making a new life in the regiment would be out of his hands. But would joining the regiment be so bad? To deal honourably for his King and country, to be a soldier, it was all he had ever wanted as a child; but he had learnt that his childish dreams were just that – dreams. Reality had turned out to be quite different.

Treville always seemed to know when his men had returned, and as soon as they dismounted, he hailed them from his usual spot upon the balcony, outside his office. Aramis and Porthos exchanged a look. Aramis had wondered about many things over the past few days, but he had not considered the events that had unfolded in any great detail, and the fact that so much had happened in such a short time. However, he now had to give his Captain a report, and there were elements of it that he was not sure Treville was going to like.

Athos followed the two Musketeers up the steps, his face unreadable but his shoulders straight and respectful. As they stood in front of the Captain's desk, Treville looked at each of the men in turn. Porthos looked the least anxious – he never led a report, but would happily add details, especially if it was one of Aramis' _special_ stories – those which needed a little help from time to time. Treville had come to dread them, as it usually meant the two men had been up to no good and, though amusing, left him having to decide whether to praise them or put them on report. He looked at Aramis, trying to judge if this was going to be one of those times. The man stared over Treville's shoulder and the Captain's heart sank. He studied Athos; he was the unknown element of the trio and Treville was interested to know how he had fared. His face gave away nothing, but the Captain noticed how white the man's knuckles were and guessed that for some reason he was nervous.

In the future, he would look back on this occasion with amusement. Athos, standing in front of him, looking nervous. He would adopt this familiar stance on many more such days; angry, apologetic, unrepentant, even broken, but never again would he be nervous. Treville cleared his throat.

'You took me at my word, arriving at the last minute.' There was no anger or judgement in his voice, he was simply stating the facts. 'Where is he?' Aramis was the spokesman for the trio once more – another thing that would change in the future.

'Safely delivered to the Louvre, Captain.' Treville nodded. Then asked, 'What happened?'

There was the slightest pause, and Treville thought he saw all three of them take a deep breath.

'Well…' Aramis hesitated and raised his eyes to the ceiling, though Treville suspected it may have been to heaven. '…the journey was made rather hazardous by the weather, so our going was slower to begin with than we would have liked.' Treville nodded to show he appreciated this fact, then waited for the Musketeer to continue. 'We reached the inn safely and the night passed without any problems, though Athos felt sure we were under observation. However, we could find only slight traces, no sign of men or horses.' Treville looked intrigued. Glancing at Athos, he saw that the man was staring straight ahead, looking more as if he were about to face a firing squad than his Captain. Aramis continued:

'The next morning, we considered our plan. We decided on the path through the forest, as it had been protected from the weather and we could ride faster; it also allowed more room to mount a defence should we be attacked.' Treville listened to the strategy and once more glanced at the swordsman, from whom there was still no response. Aramis waited for Treville to give him his attention once more then continued with his report. 'We were nearly through the forest when we were attacked from behind. We managed to overcome them, but I was wounded. Nothing serious,' Aramis added with a grin. 'Turns out Athos can handle a needle and thread.' The Musketeer subconsciously touched the healing wound on his shoulder and grinned. Treville didn't look so delighted.

'Go on, then what?' he said.

Aramis shuffled slightly. 'It was growing dark, and I had lost a fair amount of blood. We were lucky and found a cave which gave us a good vantage spot, as well as shelter from the bitter weather. We spent the night there.' Now it was Porthos' turn to shuffle and Treville prepared himself for what was about to come. Athos had gone rather pale, – it might have been Treville's imagination, but he didn't think so.

'And?' Treville asked. If he was correct, it was about now that Porthos would join in the telling. If the matter had not been so serious, he would have smiled. Porthos spoke up:

'We decided to split up.' Treville raised a brow. He noticed Athos shift position for the first time – interesting.

'You split up? Why?' It was at this point that all three men tried to speak at once.

'I thought…' said Athos stoically.

'We discussed it…' managed Porthos.

'We decided...' was Aramis' effort. They all stopped and glanced at each other. It was Aramis who butted in before either of the others had the opportunity.

'I was injured. We were still a day away from the Château and we were now sure we were being followed; the raiders from the day before having just been a delaying tactic. Which nearly worked if …' he stopped again, before carrying on. '… if we had not heard them coming.' He smiled weakly. Treville simply raised both brows but said nothing. 'Athos elected to stay behind and act as decoy, whilst Porthos and I rode ahead, in the hope he would catch us up and we could make it to the Château before nightfall.' There was a brief bleakness to his expression, which told Treville he was definitely not hearing the complete tale.

'Did it work?' he interrupted. Again, all three spoke at once. Treville sighed. The party was at three that afternoon and at the rate they were going they would be here all night.

'Yes,' stated Athos.

'Almost,' Aramis added, in an attempt to put a positive spin on the story.

'No,' growled Porthos. 'Bastards caught 'im.' The other two men looked at the big man with something akin to surprise. Obviously, thought Treville, they had not intended to reveal that part. Porthos looked at both men and shrugged, 'What? It's true! We rode for a couple of hours, but 'e was nowhere in sight. We couldn't leave 'im Captain,' Porthos beseeched Treville. He knew he had been instrumental in making Aramis turn around and he was going to be the one to explain. Only now, he realised he was going to have to do some work to dig Athos out of a hole.

'The plan was working great, until they caught up with 'im. We suspect they knew the area better. He took out four or five of 'em, which helped us a great deal. When we arrived…'

'To rescue him?' Treville asked. The two Musketeers nodded. Athos again remained silent, but was now looking down, examining his boots in minute detail. 'And what state was he in when you two arrived?' Suddenly Athos spoke at last.

'I was fine. Slightly bruised but nothing more. They were after the invitation. They did not want Gaston to arrive in Paris.' Treville did not believe for a moment that Athos had got away with only a few bruises, as he had not failed to notice the cuts and grazes to the man's face. However, right now, he was more concerned with the news he had imparted.

'Did they get it?' he asked. Athos shook his head.

'Aramis had the letter. By the time they arrived...' He shrugged, looking at his boots once more.

Smiling, Aramis continued: 'By the time we arrived, Athos had it all in hand, and after a little assistance, we left – only the ring leader and one other man survived. We thought it prudent at that point to leave well alone and head to the Châteaux. We had to spend a further night in the cave, but eventually reached the Château the next day. Gaston made a show of surprise, but though it was a great performance we were not convinced.' Treville did not look taken aback at this insight.

'We stayed the night. He was not particularly enamoured with us, I suspect he knew we were watching his every move. We set off a little after dawn, the weather was appalling. Montmorency, and Viscount d'Angouilemme, travelled in the coach, and three other soldiers of Gaston's household rode with us. We made good time to Toury, but the weather worsened and there was a severe blizzard during the night.' Again, there was a pause, before Aramis went on:

'Someone attacked Athos in the yard, leaving him for dead.' Treville hissed, and eyed the young man, who was still avoiding his gaze. Aramis continued, now wanting to get this over with, as he realised the worst was still to come. 'Luckily, we found him and managed to get him inside to recover.'

Treville looked at Athos and said, his tone stern: 'And I suppose you were fine?' Athos shifted uncomfortably and nodded at the Captain, like an errant child. Treville scoffed and raised his eyes, seeking patience from the Almighty.

'The next morning, the weather dictated we stay and wait for the snow to thaw. However, Gaston was not prepared to wait, and ordered us to continue. We had only gone a few miles when the coach overturned and all three of the occupants were injured, although Gaston was hurt least of all. We saw to the injuries and two of the soldiers left for the nearest village to arrange for the repair of the coach. The rest of us continued on horseback to the Château Rambouillet, as arranged.

When we arrived, preparations were underway for a ball. Because the Duke and Duchess were in Paris, the Lady Julienne was acting as hostess, as she was apparently well-acquainted with all three of Gaston's contingent.'

'It was a good party,' Porthos interrupted, fearing the mood was taking a turn for the worse.

'Really?' Treville replied, sarcasm dripping from the solitary word. The two Musketeers eyed each other, and Aramis took a breath.

'We stayed outside Gaston's room, which we had deemed to be in an ideal situation for him to contact others. However, as he was not suitably attired to attend the ball, he sulked in his room the entire night. The other two gentlemen were too tired from their injuries to attend the ball. Unfortunately, during the early hours, Montmorency visited the library to find a book and was stabbed… murdered.' he added, in case there was any doubt.

Aramis breathed out, and Treville decided that he now had all of the details he considered necessary, though Lord only knew how much he had left out. The two Musketeers stood shoulder to shoulder, whilst Athos kept himself at a slight distance. All three looked as though, at this moment, they would rather be anywhere but where they were.

'You left here seven days ago,' said Treville. 'Aramis has been stabbed, Athos has been _entertained_ by raiders – attacked and left for dead, Gaston and his party have been almost killed in a coaching accident, and one of the Duke's party has been murdered. Is there anything else I should know before I present myself before the King? This is the King, I would remind you, who is already furious that I allowed a recently punished criminal to accompany my men, to escort his brother to Paris, and there is nothing in your report which would stop him thinking that I have probably lost my mind.' He ran his hands through his hair and eyed the three dejected figures before him.

Deciding he had got as much as he was likely to from the three of them, he opted for a different tactic.

'Right, you two, go. You…' he indicated Aramis. 'can stay.' Porthos and Athos looked at Aramis, but the marksman merely smiled and shrugged his shoulders. Athos led the way and Porthos followed.

'Will he be alright?' Athos asked, concerned. When he had heard Aramis' version of the truth it had not sounded impressive. The swordsman did not want to think the Musketeer would be punished for his actions.

'He'll be fine, Treville will moan and complain. He might even shout. But we didn't really do nothin' wrong. Just had a lot of bad luck.' Athos gave the big man a side-long glance.

'Bad luck?' He looked slightly bemused at the Musketeer's take on events. It was too cold to sit at their bench, so they went to the refractory and found a table by the fire, neither man saying anything. Porthos bought back two bowls of hot soup and a loaf of bread and handed Athos a cup of wine. The man drank deeply but continued to watch the flames leaping in the grate, totally absorbed.

Back in the Captain's office, Treville had brought over a bottle and two glasses.

'Sit down and tell me the bits you left out.' He eyed the man before him and watched him struggle over how to begin. 'And I do mean all of it.' He looked at Aramis, his face stern, though it was clear he was not angry – not yet anyway. 'How did Athos fare?' Now this was one question Aramis had anticipated and prepared for. He smiled, and something inside Treville was greatly relieved. So, there was no bad news there at least.

'Very well indeed. Did you suspect he would not?' Treville looked thoughtful.

'I wondered how he would take direction, he can be… stubborn.' He eyed Aramis to see how the man would react. Aramis appeared serious, and then somewhat abashed. Sighing he finally nodded.

'I am glad you sent him away.' He eyed Treville who, now worried, was frowning back at his marksman.

'Many of the decisions I informed you of in my report were his. I was not trying to suggest they were my own, but it was difficult. He did not take over or seek to take control. On the contrary, he simply made suggestions, and as they were sensible or often insightful, we accepted them. He has a wonderfully strategic mind, and he is constantly alert to variables and possibilities. The man can function on hardly any sleep, and often no sleep at all.' Aramis paused and shook his head. Treville listened with interest, before encouraging the man to continue.

'And the idea to split up?' Treville asked. Aramis looked sad and shrugged.

'That was Athos. He discussed it with Porthos whilst I was asleep. Of course, Porthos said no, but when we awoke, he was gone.' Treville hissed, stood up, and walked slowly around the room.

'Go on,' he prompted.

'We argued, Porthos wanted to go after him. I… I decided to see if it could work. We rode for a couple of hours, but we were worried, he was greatly outnumbered. We decided to go back for him. When we arrived, he was holding off two men, playing with them really. He gained the final advantage, killing them both – with his _left_ arm, his right having been dislocated.' This revelation made Treville pause in his pacing. Looking incredulous, he growled:

' _Fine_ indeed. So, he is as good with either hand – interesting; though I would have wished to find out under different circumstances. Is he a loose cannon?' Treville asked, suddenly appearing deflated. He hoped he had not misjudged the man. He knew he had his demons, but if Athos had a death wish, he could not put his men at risk. Aramis smiled and shook his head.

'No. But he does put others before himself. He believed, and correctly to a point, that holding off the raiding party would allow Porthos and I to complete our mission. He may even have escaped on his own had we not arrived when we did. To him, we are Musketeers, and he is simply… well I am not wholly sure. He has fought bravely and carried himself with decorum. He handled Gaston all along – he knew what to say and when to say it. He was not intimidated by either his surroundings, or by the nobility.' He awaited Treville's response and noticed the Captain did not look surprised.

'You would ride with him again then?' the Captain asked quietly. Aramis smiled, and did not hesitate this time.

'Not only ride with him, I would happily follow him.' This perhaps did surprise Treville, but the Captain smiled too, and clapped the Musketeer on the back.

'Well, you had better send him up then. I think we need to talk.' Aramis nodded, not too sure that he wanted to know what about. He gave Treville a small nod and left the room. Treville poured himself another drink and considered all that he had heard.

Athos the swordsman did not surprise him, nor, in fact, Athos the strategist. Athos the leader – now that was interesting. He had seen the man mentoring the cadets in the garrison yard, and he knew the respect he had garnered in just a short while. Yes, he could see men following this man, even dying for him. The calm respect he showed others, the fact he considered every angle, every option gave Aramis and Porthos the confidence to abide by his direction. The day he had first seen Athos sparring in the yard with the young cadet, Treville knew he had found something special, but it was the fact that the man had put so little value on his own safety that concerned him most.

Milady appeared, as always, out of the shadows. She often wondered if that was how her life would continue. Would she spend the rest of her days lurking in those shadows, on the periphery of life? Would she never laugh in the sunshine, or feel the caress of a lover's hand in hers? She scoffed at her own weakness, for she already suspected the answer.

Despite her stealth, he was already aware of her presence and, as always, addressed her with the bluntness she had come to expect.

'What went wrong?' She took her time answering. Though there was only so far, she could push the man, she also liked to make the point that she was not totally without her pride.

'Musketeers are resourceful.' She awaited his response.

'And the stranger? Was he resourceful too?' She didn't like the way he phrased the question. Though her heart was beating too quickly, she feigned her usual disinterest before answering.

'He still lives, so I must assume so.' The Cardinal was before her in a second. He had the uncanny ability of standing in one place one minute and appearing at your side a second later. As he backed her against the edge of a table, she took a deep breath, the sharp carvings pressing deeply into her spine.

'I do not pay you to assume. I pay you to do a job, and you failed. _I_ _assume_ Gaston is on his way?' She nodded, eyes wide, not daring to shift her gaze from his. With the same swiftness of movement, he withdrew once more, and she raised her hand to her chest, attempting to calm her breathing.

'Where are they?' he growled. She answered quickly this time.

'I left them at Rambouillet.' She declined to add that one of the party had been _removed_. She was unknown at the Château, and so would never be suspected. No need to take credit. 'They would have set off at first light, arriving before midday.'

He nodded. It was as he suspected, and there was nothing he could do to prevent it now; he could only hope his plans would not be affected by whatever Gaston had arranged. He had managed to hide D'Coucy's death from Treville – the man had been found hanging in a barn when his men had arrived, whether by his own hand or by another's, he had no idea. And now it really didn't matter.

'You are on the guest list. Stay close to Gaston, I want to know his every move.' She nodded and left. She hated the First Minister, but it would not do to bite the hand that fed her – not yet anyway. She knew she would outstay her welcome one day, then she would have to look to her own needs, and the Cardinal's secrets may well come in handy.

Though the party was not due to start until three o'clock in the afternoon, already the palace was filled with music and chatter. There were friends who had not seen each other for many years meeting up again; nobles shaking their heads and discussing matters probably akin to treason; whilst others merely exchanged gossip and watched the nobility trying to outdo each other. Extravagance was certainly the order of the day. If those invited had rolled their eyes at the upcoming expense, they had risen to the challenge in the end. Velvets and the finest lace adorned man and woman; jewels sparkled on every finger, dripped from every female neck and elaborate coiffure, the sad juxtaposition between the Louvre and the streets outside lost on almost all of those present.

Louis was strutting up and down in his apartments, like a child on Christmas Eve.

'Is everything ready, Cardinal?' Richelieu certainly hoped so. The fact that there were too many unknowns surrounding the event was making him nervous. Still, he had Treville in charge of the King and Queen's safety and, after all, his men had spent several days with Gaston. If the traitorous Duke had plans in action, Richelieu could argue that the Musketeers should have realised. No, he was happy that if it all went wrong, he could blame Treville and his Musketeers; providing Louis was still around to demand an answer of course. He wondered if he should have made plans for that eventuality – still, no time now.

'Are you listening to me, Cardinal?' Louis demanded crossly. Richelieu snapped back to attention.

'Forgive me, Your Highness, I was just running through the events planned in my head. One cannot check too many times. Everything is running smoothly. There is just the cake to arrive, but we expect that shortly. It is being constructed in the kitchens as we speak.' Louis clapped his hands together in excitement.

'Marvellous! I wish to light the final candle so that my dear Anne may blow it out.' The King grinned, and even Richelieu smiled at the Kings' glee.

Earlier that morning, in the bowels of the Louvre, Rochefort lurked in a dimly-lit corner, awaiting the man he had sent for. He did not like to be kept waiting; he was expected for late morning refreshments by the ladies of the Spanish court, particularly Dona Maria, daughter of Olivares, the Spanish Prime minister. He smiled at his own success in that direction. Always a vain man, he harboured a rather over-inflated opinion of his own attraction to women. Indeed, he would have been shocked to discover how much he made his beloved Queen's skin crawl.

Footsteps sounded beneath the vaulted ceilings. The sun never reached this part of the Louvre and frost and snow still clung around the lower part of the walls. Here beneath the earth, it was frigid, and Rochefort stamped his booted feet upon the flagstones in an attempt to keep warm. The one torch he had lit to illuminate the transaction cast long shadows, as well as flickering spectres upon the dank walls. Shivering, he watched the figure approach.

'You are late!' spat Rochefort in annoyance. The man bowed low, shifting uneasily from one foot to another.

'Apologies my Lord. The invitation you sent was late reaching my address and I dared not begin my journey without it.' Rochefort stared at him through narrow eyes, before turning abruptly and fetching a small, cloth-wrapped object.

'This is all you need. It is ready to be used and you do not need to do anything. The cake will be lit at five o'clock. All eyes will be upon the King and Queen and all you have to do is exactly as we discussed. I will be situated just inside the door on the left-hand side. Remember, it is all part of the charade for the Queen's birthday.' The man still looked unconvinced, but when Rochefort handed over the heavy purse of coins, the man shrugged and smiled.

'Who am I, as your humble servant, to question such japes? I will do as you have asked, and at the appointed hour.' Once more he bowed, then walked back into the gloom from where he had come.

Rochefort watched the figure disappear before blowing out the torch. With a flick of his head and a deep breath, he strode out of the catacombs and into the daylight once more.

Aramis walked into the refractory to find his friends. Porthos looked up and Athos followed the big man's gaze.

'Well?' Porthos asked, anxiously. Aramis shrugged and smiled, and turning to Athos he said:

'He would like to speak with you now.' Athos merely nodded, as if he had been waiting for such an invitation.

'He's not in trouble, is he?' Porthos looked worried, ready to go back upstairs and say his piece if it were necessary. Athos stood and, as he did so, placed his hand upon the big Musketeer's shoulder.

'It is alright, my friend. We have things to discuss, Treville and I.' Athos gave a wan smile, then walked out into the courtyard and mounted the stairs leading to the Captain's office. He paused outside the door and knocked firmly.

'Come,' the Captain's voice answered. He had been waiting ever since Aramis had left the room, struggling with the best way to deal with the man, and he still did not know whether to complain, shout, chastise or praise him, for his behaviour. He decided to hear what parts of the story Athos would fill in, the parts Aramis had obviously omitted.

Athos entered. His face showed no indication of his emotional state, but Treville was becoming used to that. The Captain stood behind his desk and waved toward the chair where he wished Athos to sit. Reaching into a cupboard, he pulled out a bottle of brandy and two glasses. He sat down, sweeping aside the remnants of the wine he had shared with Aramis. Athos took all of this in – so, he was to be given brandy, whilst Aramis had shared wine. Why the change of tactics? Was the discussion to be so unsettling? Athos was still stood up. He was not one to sit comfortably in such a situation, especially not holding such a difficult conversation as this one would prove to be. Treville looked up at the man standing to attention before him and let out a sigh of exasperation.

'I said sit, and that is an order.' Shuffling uncomfortably, Athos nodded and seated himself upon the edge of the chair. If one could sit to attention, then that was what this man was doing. Deciding this was the best he would get, Treville set about his enquiries.

'Do you wish to tell me what really happened?' Treville asked. Athos was taken by surprise. He had not expected so honest an approach, and he did not know how to reply. There was so much Aramis had skimmed over or avoided altogether, and he was not sure how much Treville suspected, but he was not going to elaborate on any of it and make Aramis look like a liar. So Treville's next words gave him a modicum of comfort.

'I have worked with Aramis for several years. I have no doubt the man has not lied to me. In fact, I am sure he has told me all that is salient to the mission. However, now I would like you to tell me why he believed he had to curtail some of details for my benefit. He will not suffer in my estimation.' _But you might, w_ ere the words Athos heard inside his head, but still he could not find the words to answer Treville's request. The Captain sighed yet again and ran his hands through his hair. Was this how it would always be? Would he always have to choose his words with this man? It was like dealing with a particularly temperamental stallion – one wrong move and the horse would bolt. He poured Athos a generous brandy, and then one for himself. Taking a sip, he finally spoke.

'Very well, let us go about this in a different way. I am ordering you to give me the details of your capture.' Athos blinked and reached for his glass. Sipping the liquid, he felt the warming amber trail down his throat – it was fine brandy. Nodding, he began his tale.

When he had finished, leaving nothing out, Treville sat and pondered over what he had heard. So concise and well delivered was the report that he doubted the man had left out any detail. He envisaged such succinct accounts of missions in the future and smiled to himself in grateful anticipation – Aramis could sometimes be longwinded, if believable at all.

'So, that was your plan from the beginning? To let yourself be taken, not to lead them astray as you discussed with Porthos?' Athos thought for a moment.

'Perhaps not at the beginning. However, after careful consideration I believed I stood a better chance as a prisoner than as their prey.' Treville nodded.

'Did you consider how the other two men would feel, when they awoke and found you gone? You were supposed to be watching their backs.' Athos bristled at this admonishment.

'I was. I only went into the forest below. I still had their backs.' He held Treville's gaze and the Captain knew he meant every word he said. No, he was sure that this man would never lie to him; even if it were to his own detriment.

'Even so,' Treville added, 'once again you put yourself in harm's way. Do you hold your own life in so little regard? I need to ask, for a Musketeer with a death wish has no place in this garrison.' Athos bowed his head. So, he was not immune to the feelings of the two Musketeers – that, at least, was progress. Athos looked up at this, he had not expected to still be under consideration. Treville smiled.

'Oh, do not think I am not angry. But Aramis and Porthos have both pulled some equally ridiculous stunts over the years. I am not naive enough to fail to appreciate ingenuity, but recklessness is something else. Do you understand?' Athos nodded before he answered.

'Yes, Captain, and thank you.' He hesitated, and Treville wondered what was about to come next. Athos took a deep breath. 'It is not that I am not honoured that you still think me worthy of consideration. However, my dealings with Gaston… may not be conducive to my elevation in the King's regard.' He lowered his gaze once more, leaving Treville to deliberate on how quickly the man could alter his demeanour. He'd showed no arrogance or irritation at Treville's rebuke; in fact, he had listened with humiliation and shame whilst the Captain had pointed out his selfishness. At other times, he showed the confidence and eloquence of a man twice his age; and then there was his ability with a sword. Treville sighed once more; it seemed this man was too complex for him to understand just yet – in fact he suspected he may never understand him fully. Athos would only reveal just what he needed to, the rest was for him to keep locked within. Treville looked up suddenly.

'You didn't hit him?' Athos actually smiled. It was such a rare occurrence that it surprised Treville how young the man looked when he did so. With just the faintest twitch of the lips remaining, Athos shook his head.

'No, I did not. Though it was tempting.' Treville let out a loud guffaw and poured them both another brandy.

'I can quite believe it.' He grew serious once more. 'What do you believe is afoot?' Athos drank from the glass, and Treville noted how much he had relaxed, leaning back on his chair whilst he considered the question.

'I believe Gaston was behind the idea of the Queen's party from the beginning. Despite the performance he gave, he was not surprised by the invitation. I suspect, however, that he was also irritated, and I don't believe he considered the possibility of the missive arriving so late. Whatever he had planned, I am sure it needed him to be in Paris much earlier. Perhaps a show of strength, even a small force. Then the poor weather played its part, and any plans he might have had were almost certainly abandoned at that point. Whatever he may have in place now, it will be last minute and rapidly put together which, while making it harder to anticipate, will be perhaps easier to contain. Gaston should be watched, at all times.' Treville, almost gaped. Once more, here was the strategist, the confident man, the man who sounded like a hardened soldier. Everything Athos had surmised made perfect sense. Treville nodded.

'He is, do not worry. But there is more.' He went on to inform Athos of the dealings of D'Coucy. 'I, too, have my sources. I have discovered D'Coucy has a son, the eldest. He likes to gamble, but unfortunately, he is not lucky and has amassed a huge amount of debt. Last week, all of his debts were cleared, and the man took a passage to England. It would seem you are correct. The Cardinal tells me D'Coucy did not make it back to his estates, I doubt he ever will. No loose ends.' Athos took all of this in.

'What do you plan to do now?' he asked the Captain. Treville stood and drained his glass.

'I need you all to be present at the party.' Athos frowned. 'Don't worry, you can mingle with the other guests, you won't be wearing a uniform so you will have the advantage over my men.' He glanced over the man's clothing and frowned. 'I don't suppose…' His words trailed off, as Athos followed the Captain's gaze. He thought back to the trunk. It seemed another visit would be necessary.

'I will manage,' Athos stated. Treville nodded, and the two men continued to discuss how best to proceed.

As Athos left the room, the Captain watched the door close and smiled. That was a man he wanted as a Musketeer – his sharp mind was a joy to work with. They had thrown ideas back and forth and the outcome, though not perfect, was the best they could have hoped for. This man would prove to be a great leader. Treville remembered Aramis' remarks; the man already had it seemed.

Having been gone some time, Athos re-joined the two impatient Musketeers in the refractory. He smiled when he saw the bottle of wine upon the table. Then he remembered the two generous glasses of brandy, and he stilled his hand, surprised at his will power, but he needed a clear head. The idea of milling with nobility made him feel physically sick. Would anyone still recognise him? His father had rarely attended court, that was one thing they had in common, a dislike for pomp and court gossip. But there had been many visitors to the estate. Dressed as he was, no one would give him a second glance, but dressed otherwise…

Aramis could contain himself no longer. 'What has happened? Was he furious?' Athos stopped to consider the question.

'No, we discussed my actions and he pointed out my errors.' Aramis and Porthos exchanged a look. Treville quietly pointing out Athos's errors? They both burst out laughing. Athos, king of the understatement. Even the man himself allowed a small quirk of his lips. Then he became serious once more, laying out their plans, and Porthos laughed some more.

'So, we 'ave to go to work, whilst you get to swan around all dressed up with the nobs.' Athos looked extremely uncomfortable, and Aramis was beginning to suspect why. He smiled and nudged Porthos' ribs.

'There is one problem with you mixing with the nobility, my friend.' Athos looked at him, raising a brow in expectation. 'You are filthy, your hair and beard too long and… well several days on horseback…' Aramis rolled his eyes and screwed up his nose. Athos snorted.

'I will see to it.' He placed his hat on his head and turned to leave. 'I have things to attend to. I shall be prepared by the time you are ready to leave the garrison.' With that, he walked out of the room, leaving Aramis and Porthos in eager anticipation. A courtly Athos – now that was a sight they were looking forward to.


	27. Chapter 27

Chapter 27

One o'clock – two hours until the party…

Athos rummaged through the chest once more, but this time he was less successful. He had not anticipated attending a court function when he left his estates, and even Madame Renard, his faithful housekeeper, would not have thought it worth adding such items. Sitting back on his haunches, he ran his hands through his hair – just one more thing to attend to very soon. As he stood, Athos wondered what on earth he had agreed to. He abhorred court functions of any kind – he had never blended in before, and he doubted he would now. After all, not many nobles presented themselves at court wearing as many facial injuries as he currently sported. _Blend in?_ He snorted. Still, he was doing this for Treville, and if the Captain required it of him, then so be it. Closing the trunk once more, he placed the small leather pouch safely inside his doublet before leaving the room.

'Jacques!' Athos called down the dim passageway, where he had last seen the man. He didn't have to wait long before he heard a shuffling and Jacques appeared. The old man smiled, but his face dropped when he noted Athos' expression.

'Is something wrong, my Lord?' Athos thought to correct him, but he knew it would be useless; centuries of feudal upbringing could not be overturned so easily. Not wanting to upset the man, he smiled, shaking his head.

'No Jacques, everything is as I left it.' Jacques looked relieved, so Athos continued: 'I appreciate you keeping the trunk here, you do me a great service.' Now the old servant beamed.

'You are welcome, my Lord, you looked after me and my wife when we left your service, we will help in any way we can.' Athos gave a small nod of appreciation.

'Jacques' wife had been the under-cook on the estate and had enjoyed spoiling the young Athos with biscuits when he was a child. Jacques had worked in the stables, it was he who had helped Athos break in Roger, and the two had been firm friends – no easy accomplishment with the temperamental stallion.

'Actually, there is something you may be able to help with.' Jacques looked slightly worried, he was no longer a young man. 'Do not worry old friend, I simply want directions. I find myself having to attend a function at the Louvre this afternoon and…' He couldn't help but look at his attire, Jacques following the direction of his gaze. The old man began to laugh.

'Not dressed like that you won't. Jenny Renard would give you a clip around the ears.' He continued to laugh. Athos thought of the old housekeeper and her perfect etiquette and nodded his head sadly.

'It appears I need a little assistance.' Jacques grew serious and stroked his chin.

'Well now, that isn't really within my field of experience. Just one moment if you will, my Lord.' He looked slightly uncomfortable and shuffled back into the room from which he had emerged earlier. This time Athos could hear mumbled voices, then one of them – that of a woman – grew louder. Jacques reappeared, looking somewhat flustered.

'If you would come this way, my Lord. You will have to forgive Marie, she is indisposed at present, but she bids you come and speak with her.' Athos followed the old man into the small room at the rear of the house. Though it was early afternoon, the curtains were drawn, and a candle burnt in a holder beside the bed. Marie was propped up on several pillows, her face pale. No fire burnt in the grate and the room was freezing. The elderly woman became agitated when she saw Athos and attempted to sit up straighter. He placed a hand upon her shoulder, gently pushing her back down.

'No Marie, please do not stir yourself. You are unwell, I should not have bothered you.' The woman smiled and whispered as best as she was able.

'It is nothing, my Lord. It is so good to see you.' She frowned, looking him over from top to bottom. 'You aren't eating properly are you? A good meal is what you need.' Athos gave a genuine smile and Jacques rolled his eyes.

'I have been rather busy, Marie,' Athos pleaded. She wagged her small index finger, pretending she was cross.

'Too busy to eat? Now what kind of excuse is that?' Athos nodded, accepting the woman's admonishment with good grace.

'A poor one I know. I need some advice Marie. I need to be attired for court, and I must have it today. There is no time for tailors or fittings. Can you help?' Marie thought hard. 'The best place is the Bonacieux residence. He is a pompous man, but his young wife is an excellent seamstress –she will help. The girl has a kind heart, but a sharp tongue, so better mind your manners young master.' Jacques tutted, but Athos promised that he would. He bent and gave the old woman a kiss on her cheek. She flushed, looking overwhelmed.

'Goodbye, Marie, take care. I will return.'

When he was in the passageway once more, Athos turned and addressed the older man.

'What ails her Jacques?' The servant shook his head.

'I don't rightly know, my Lord, she took ill some weeks back and I can't seem to get her right.' He looked tired and Athos noticed how frayed the cuffs on his jacket were. Reaching inside his doublet, he withdrew a small pouch. Taking several coins from inside, he pressed them into the old man's hand.

'Get wood for the fire, some good food and a doctor. Make sure he is recommended and don't let him bleed her. If she does not improve you must send for me.' He hesitated for a moment. 'You will find me at the garrison, just ask for Athos.' Jacques looked at the money in his hand and was about to speak. Athos placed his own hand around the old man's weathered fingers.

'No Jacques, it is yours, make sure Marie gets well. I will return when my business at the palace is finished. You know where to find me if you need me.' Despite the incredulous expression on Jacques face, the man managed to nod, giving a low bow. Athos patted him on the shoulder and left. The sun was beginning its downward arc – he was running short of time.

Following Jacques' directions, he found himself close to the garrison. The Bonacieux residence stood on a street corner, and a draper's sign hung outside, swinging in the light breeze. Athos had begun to ascend the steps to the door, when suddenly it opened. A young woman emerged with a basket of washing. Being so close, his sudden appearance made the woman stumble, and the basket of washing rose into the air as she missed her footing. Athos could not decide whether he should catch the basket or the woman. Chivalry won out and, as she fell toward him, he halted her descent, grabbing her around the waist. Everything went dark, and for a moment he almost fell himself, taking the angry woman with him. Relieved he was still upright and still on the steps, Athos tried to let go, aware that he was being pummelled by an enraged female. However, he was tangled up in what appeared to be bed sheets and the more he tried to free himself from the agitated woman, the worse it seemed to get.

'Stand still!' she shouted suddenly. 'Let me go!' Athos tried, but received a sharp slap to his wrist for his efforts.

'Madame, I am doing my best, but it appears your... linens are hampering my movements.' The woman snorted, then began to laugh.

'It's a good job my husband isn't here then isn't it?' Somehow, she managed to unwind the sheets from Athos' arms and, like a butterfly, he emerged once more into the daylight. The woman stood with her hands on her hips awaiting an explanation. 'Well? What do you think you were doing?' Athos looked puzzled. He wasn't sure _what_ he had been doing to cause such a drama.

'Forgive me, Madame, I believe I was simply alighting the steps to your front door, when you emerged… unexpectedly.' He hoped he was right; if this woman was Madame Bonacieux then he really didn't want to anger her further.

Softening a little, she began collecting her washing from the dusty floor. 'I will have to do this all over again now, thanks to you. What did you want anyway? My husband is away if it was him you were expecting to find.'

'If you are Madame Bonacieux, then I believe it is you I seek. Madame Bicot suggested you may be able to help me.' The woman frowned, then realisation dawned.

'The cook? Why didn't you say? Come in.' It was a well-presented house; the draper's obviously did a reasonable amount of business. He noticed bolts of familiar, blue woollen cloth on a dresser against the wall.

'You do work for the garrison?' She followed his gaze to the material and looked wary.

'What of it?' Athos wasn't sure how to proceed, but fell back on the recent story he had been using.

'I am the new sword master.' Now the woman smiled.

'Why didn't you say?' Athos wondered at which point in the strange conversation he was supposed to have imparted the information, but then nothing about this meeting had gone as he would have expected.

'Perhaps we should begin again, Monsieur Athos.' He gave a low bow and smiled. The woman rolled her eyes.

'Oh, you will fit right in there – a right bunch of charmers the lot of them! So, Monsieur Athos, what is it you need?' She observed the hesitation on Athos' face and shook her head. 'Well let me help you. Clothes I assume? Anything in particular, or would you like me to make a list?' Athos shook his head.

'I have a job to do for Captain Treville.' This time he looked serious; how much could he trust this woman? But time was short, and as she produced uniform for the garrison, he presumed she was held in high regard. 'I have to attend the Queen's party and mingle with the guests. My current attire will not suffice, and I have nothing readily available that will serve. Can you help me? I am afraid we have very little time.' She looked him up and down in horror.

'You will be mingling with royalty and such. Forgive me, Monsieur, but it is going to take more than fine clothes to do that.' Athos looked frustrated.

'So, I have been advised.'

'Right, well we had better make a start. I will put water on to heat and you can take a bath.' Athos looked astounded.

'No good looking at me like that, you can't _mingle_ smelling like you do.' She wrinkled her nose and, whilst the water heated upon the hearth, began pulling open drawers and cupboards. 'I can manage shirts and underwear, and probably breeches, but a doublet of that quality in the time we have… You are taller than my husband, but we might manage. Take off your clothes.' If Athos had looked discomfited before, now he was appalled.

'Madame…' He failed to find the words.

'Monsieur Athos, I am a seamstress. How exactly do you think I fit clothes to people's bodies if they do not remove their clothing? Down to your braies, now, please.' Athos rolled his eyes and complied, realising that he did not really have any choice. It hadn't occurred to him just how battered he would appear until he saw the look on the woman's face. Glancing down at his torso, he noted the myriad of colours that covered his ribs and stomach. Most of the bruises had yellowed, but one or two were still purple. His shoulder had healed, but he still bore the puckered mark from Aramis' fine needle work. Then, of course, there were the other scars. The woman backed away slightly. Athos didn't blame her, and he raised his hands in a gesture of reassurance.

'Madame Bonacieux, I assure you I am who I say I am. I am not some scoundrel come to do you harm. I have been on business for the King, and things… got a little heated.' She raised her eyebrows.

'Heated? She walked behind him. Gently, she touched the red scars that criss-crossed his skin, and suddenly her voice softened. 'Was this the result of things getting a _little heated_?' she asked. Athos sighed.

'I am truly sorry, Madame, but it is a long story, and I fear we do not have the time.' For a moment he looked vulnerable, but she did not believe he was lying.

'Constance, my name is Constance. Your water is ready. If you will carry it into the other room, I will leave you whilst I gather what I need.' She smiled, but her eyes were sad as she gave Athos' injuries a final appraisal.

Alone in the room, he breathed a sigh of relief. He had almost forgotten about the wounds on his back. They hurt still from time to time, but he hadn't considered what the image might infer to a stranger. He submersed himself in the water and sank beneath the surface; the warmth was wonderful. He had taken a bath at the garrison after his recovery, and Aramis had attempted to cut his hair, but Athos had made it almost impossible –not willing to accept such intimate contact, and refusing to stay still. When the water began to cool, he emerged from the tub, wrapping himself in the large towel Madame had provided. A sudden knock on the door made him start.

'Are you decent?' Athos was not sure this classed as decent, but he replied with an affirmative. The door opened and a pile of clothing was produced though the narrow gap. 'Make a start with these then come out when you are ready.'

When Athos appeared, he now wore a clean, fine linen shirt and pale breeches. Constance looked him over and smiled. 'Excellent. Now come and sit here by the fire, we need to tame that mop.' Athos quirked a brow, then he noticed the bowl of water, cloth and straight razor, ready for use. If he paled, she pretended not to notice. 'I assume Monsieur Athos, as a sword master you are skilled with the weapon? Rest assured that I am a skilled with this one.' Pressing him back into the chair, she smiled sweetly as she waved the razor in the air. With a cloth around his shoulders and a rapidly approaching razor there was little Athos could do but surrender. For the second time that day he wondered how on earth he had gothimself into this position.

A little while later, Constance declared him ready. He was now dressed in a long dark velvet coat with matching waistcoat, snowy white lace frothing at his cuffs; his hair had been trimmed and his beard neatened. She smiled at her creation. 'My, my, Monsieur Athos, you _are_ a picture. I almost wish I were going with you,' she admitted, giving him a cheeky grin. Athos withdrew his main _gauche_ from his weapons belt and secreted it inside his coat. If Constance's smile wavered, it was only for a moment. 'Are you anticipating trouble?' She looked worried, but Athos smiled.

'It is best to be prepared. Madame, I am indebted to you. Please tell me how much I owe you for your troubles.' Constance adopted her business-like stance once more.

'I will prepare your bill and send it to the garrison. Try not to get killed before it is settled. And look after the jacket, it belongs to my husband; though I doubt it still fits.' She gave him a stern look, but Athos was not fooled. Marie had been right, she had a sharp tongue, but a kind heart. He took her hand and kissed above her fingers. Constance blushed.

'Musketeers!' She shook her head to hide her embarrassment, and Athos gave the ghost of a smile.

'I must be going, Madame, but I thank you.' With one final nod, Athos turned to leave.

'Monsieur Athos.' He paused and looked back. 'Take care, won't you?' Athos smiled.

'It is Athos, Madame, just Athos.' He collected his weapons and belongings and turned away, finally heading back toward the garrison. Athos groaned inwardly when he considered the reception he was about to receive from Aramis and Porthos.

The Palace was alive with music and chatter. Guests were waiting in line to be introduced to the King and Queen. Louis was beginning to grow weary of the never-ending queue and had started to fidget, his smile now only bestowed upon those he deemed worthy. Anne, on the other hand, was charming and greeted everyone with a warm smile.

'How many more, my dear? By the time we have received them all, it will be time to retire.' Anne smiled and continued to nod at the line of nobles.

'Do not worry, Sire, not much longer.' Louis sighed and pouted. Suddenly, he beamed, and without warning, headed toward the doorway, leaving Anne and the receiving line staring at an empty space.

'Rochefort! How wonderful to see you. And my dear Dona Maria, looking beautiful as ever.' The petite Spanish woman smiled and dropped a low curtsey. Her French was poor, but she understood the intent behind the King's words. 'Your timing is perfect. Please save me from that endless line of bores.' Rochefort smiled and bowed his head.

'With pleasure, Your Majesty. Would you care for some refreshment? You must be in need of wine.' The King grinned and clapped his hands.

'Rochefort, you are a life-saver. My dear,' he said, turning to Dona Maria, 'come and sit with me, whilst Rochefort acquires our wine.'

Richelieu tapped his fingers together as he stood a little way from the throng; he was finding it impossible to keep track of the King and Gaston at the same time. The Duke was tittering with some young nobles near the punch bowl. The Cardinal hoped he would drink to excess and then perhaps they could remove him elsewhere – the First Minister smirked at the endless possibilities.

Candles flickered from chandeliers and candelabras, onto walls and tables. The room was becoming hot and stuffy as, despite its size, there were just too many bodies. When dancing resumed, small flashes of light played upon the walls and ceiling, as jewels reflected the small flames around the room. So far, everything had gone as planned. The King and Queen were happy, and Rochefort was doing what he, Richelieu, had paid him to do. If all went well, the Spanish party would have one more member when they returned to Madrid, and he would have a well-placed spy in the Spanish court.

By the time Athos returned to the garrison, Aramis and Porthos were waiting with the horses. The swordsman had arrived just in time. Treville, along with several more from the regiment, had already left. He approached the archway, and raised a brow when the two Musketeers on guard duty challenged his entry. When they realised who it was, they gaped in surprise, and it was only Athos' ice-cold stare that stilled their tongues. He hoped it would be as successful on the other two.

Aramis spotted him first, and beamed from ear to ear, giving Porthos a dig in the ribs. Both Musketeers took note of Athos' expression and attempted to appear as serious as possible. To be honest, though it was a shock to see him dressed like that, he did not appear uncomfortable, just unhappy.

They could contain their amusement no longer. Athos glared at the two men, adding a magnificent scowl.

'Don't even think about it, if you both value your lives!' Without another word, he handed his belongings over to the stable lad before swinging onto Roger's back. As he trotted out into the streets of Paris, he allowed himself a small grin at the sound of Porthos' booming laughter – let him enjoy the moment.

Aramis rode alongside and smiled. 'That is an amazing transformation, mon ami. I am impressed. How on earth did you manage that in so short a time?' Athos rolled his eyes, remembering the stern Madame Bonacieux.

'Don't ask. It is most definitely a story for another time!' Porthos, now on Athos' other side, slapped his thigh in anticipation.

'Another story! I can't wait!' The two Musketeers chuckled once more, but Athos ignored them both, maintaining his stoic expression, like a parent trying to ignore a pair of naughty children.

'Have we any news?' he asked finally. The two Musketeers at once became serious, and Aramis shook his head.

'Treville received news that D'Coucy was found hanged in on outbuilding on his estate – whether by his own hand or some other we will probably never know. There was information in the missive which suggested he was already dead when the Cardinal's men arrived, which meant Richelieu deliberately kept the details to himself. Do you think the Cardinal could be involved?' Athos' brow furrowed as he considered the question.

'No, I think it unlikely. His response, as you described it, sounded genuine. I do not believe he knew of the King's intentions. Of course, how he has decided to turn the situation to his advantage since, is impossible to tell.' Athos answered.

'Can't see him letting it go to waste if he can make something of it,' Porthos added, looking cynical. He smiled at Athos. 'You look good, suits you.' He gave a loud guffaw as Athos cut him a sideways look as deadly as his sword. Aramis smiled and considered their next move.

'How do you want to play this?' Again the two Musketeers awaited Athos response, whilst the man gave the question his usual due consideration.

'Treville thinks I can pass unnoticed amongst the guests, making it easier for me to watch Gaston. There will be Musketeers on all entrances and Red Guards on the stairwell and outside doors. I would recommend you and Porthos stay close to the King and Queen. It would be best if I were nowhere near His Majesty.' Porthos and Aramis nodded their understanding.

As they arrived at the Louvre, dusk was falling. Torches were lit along the approach and braziers lined the stone steps, whilst the wall sconces added yet more light. Shadows danced and wavered, creating unnerving spectres in the men's peripheral vision. It was affecting the Red Guard on duty, and they were unusually nervous as they made to challenge the approaching horses.

'Oh, it's only you,' one of the guards muttered when he spied the blue Musketeer cloaks. Aramis grinned and gave a small bow.

'Good evening gentlemen. A cold night I am afraid. Let us hope the party is not unusually long, for I fear it will be an uncomfortable watch.' The guards glared at the marksman with undisguised dislike. When they spotted Athos, they stood to attention. It was all he could do not to play the role they were allotting him – just for a moment – but somehow he could not bring himself to do it. Instead he simply glared, walking straight past them into the Louvre, unaware that by doing so he was playing the role only too well. Aramis and Porthos followed close behind.

'That get-up of yours might prove useful. Seems it can open all sorts of doors. I should hang on to it if I were you,' Porthos sniggered, patting Athos on the shoulder. They strode along the corridors, stopping to check with the Musketeers on duty, to find out whether they had spotted anything untoward. Having gleaned no further news, they continued toward the ballroom. Luckily, the King and Queen were still too involved with the receiving line to notice the three men enter.

Athos immediately turned and headed into the throng, whilst the two Musketeers sought out Treville. The Captain was standing behind the King, ever watchful. Though he held a glass of wine, Aramis doubted whether any had passed his lips. Treville spotted Aramis, with Porthos, as usual, by his side. He looked behind them, now seeking the missing third. When he failed to see Athos, he gave the two men a quizzical look.

'Where is he?' He looked perplexed, but the two men beamed back at him. Aramis nodded toward the gathering of young nobles near the punch bowl, one of whom was Gaston, who was holding court as if it were his ballroom, not his brother's. Standing in the shadows to one side, sipping from a glass of wine stood Athos, nonchalantly leaning against a pillar, with a look on his face that dared anyone to interrupt him.

'He is the lively guest observing Gaston – over there in black velvet.' Once more Aramis failed to hide his amusement. Porthos snorted with laughter and even Treville quirked his brow and smiled.

'Well, he certainly looks the part, but I am glad I did not send him out to gather information, as I doubt anyone will have the courage to speak to him!'

This was exactly what Athos was hoping. He had been lucky with Julienne d' Angennes, but if he had remained at the Château much longer, he felt sure she would have remembered his name.

They had met only once, when Athos was seventeen, at an event similar to this, but on a less extravagant scale. It had been her birthday party, though it had been held at her grandmother's estate in Charente, not in Rambouillet. His parents had been guests at the manor for several weeks, and he had spent many evenings with Julienne and other guests of a similar age, discussing literature and other such things. He, of course, had stayed in the background, whilst the others played parlour games and entertainments of a more social nature. Thomas had been deemed too young to join in, so Athos had been alone. One afternoon, he had been reading quietly by the lake, when Julienne had come upon him and asked if she may sit. Though he had been enjoying the solitude, as a gentleman he felt he could not decline.

' _Do you mind if I sit for a while? The afternoon is quite warm, and I find myself in need of rest.' She had smiled sweetly, lifting one gloved hand to shield her eyes from the sun. Olivier stood and bowed, indicating a seat upon the bench. It was against all rules of respectable behaviour for a young, unmarried woman to be alone with a man, especially alone in the garden. However, from what the young man had observed of the woman, he doubted she would worry over such matters. He couldn't think of anything pertinent to say_ , _so said nothing. Aware of his awkwardness_ , _she had spoken first._

' _What are you reading?' He held out the book and she took it from him. Removing her gloves, she opened the cover. She looked surprised._

' _Donne. I did not think you the romantic type.' Olivier looked somewhat uncomfortable, and she laughed, a throaty sound_ , _unlike the tinkling scales that most young women were taught to deliver. 'Do not worry, I will keep your secret.' Replacing her gloves, she returned the small book_ , _her hand lingering slightly longer than necessary. 'Do you read here often?' At last the young man spoke – a serious voice, rich and smooth._

' _Every afternoon, if I am able.' She tilted her head and smiled._

' _Perhaps we will meet again.' He watched as she walked across the grass, her fair hair shining like gold in the afternoon sun._

And so they had met most afternoons for that final week. Talking about nothing in particular, he had gradually relaxed. They had laughed and joked, and he was more comfortable than he had ever been at home. The kiss had been inevitable. The hour was getting late and the light was that amber gold particular to an early summer afternoon. They had stood beneath the cherry tree, boughs weighed down with blossom. He had picked a stem and given it to her, she in turn placing it in her hair. The kiss had been sweet, almost chaste. A moment of innocent infatuation.

The sound of breaking glass bought Athos back from his reverie. The party of young bucks still draped themselves around the rapidly diminishing punch bowl, though Gaston was no longer with them. Athos stirred and quickly scanned the room, breathing a sigh of relief when he realised he was still only a few feet away. One of the drunken noblemen had obviously had too much wine and dropped his drink. Much to his horror, on route to the floor, most of the contents of his glass had spilled down the front of Gaston's jacket.

Louis had heard the noise and waved his brother over. Athos moved closer, in an attempt to keep the Duke under surveillance. It was a big mistake. Treville, spying Athos, moved toward him, unaware that the Cardinal was watching the Captain closely. As Treville reached Athos' side, Richelieu gaped in surprise, realising just who the Captain was talking to. He couldn't have planned it any better himself. He needed a distraction, and there he was standing right in front of him.

The Cardinal began to make his way toward the King. He didn't know why the man was attired as he was, but Gaston was already boiling with rage, and the First Minister had been subjected to the Duke's complaints about the arrogant Musketeer – the upstart who had dared to man-handle him, showing him no respect throughout their journey.

The right word in the Duke's ear and the brewing volcano would erupt.

Whilst Athos was musing about the past, Milady had slipped out of the ballroom. She had witnessed the arrival of the two Musketeers but could not believe her eyes when she had spied Athos. It had been like a slap to the face. Seeing him as he been before, in the garb of a soldier, she could pretend he was a different person to the man she had married. Dressed like this, the man walking through the crowded room, as though he expected them to part and let him pass – this was the Athos she knew, and it pained her more than she could have imagined. He was coming close and she needed to leave, quickly.

Heading for the nearest door, she found herself in a side room. A couple were examining a portrait – or at least that is what they were doing when she walked in. Ignoring them, she stalked across the room and back into the corridor. Perhaps it was time to take a look around, after all, everyone was busy, and she may even find something of interest. For a second, she considered breaking into the Cardinals office, but there were too many guards, and there were some risks she was not prepared to take.

Turning the corner, she watched as a figure emerged from a room a little way ahead. Puzzled, she thought she recognised the man's gait, but he was too distant, and she could not be sure. Still, puzzled, she thought it might be prudent to look into the room anyway. Standing outside all appeared quiet. She opened the door slowly and peered inside. She could not believe her eyes.


	28. Chapter 28

Apologies for the longer delay in publishing this Chapter, I have been away for a week. Thank you again, all of you who take the time to comment on the story. It is most encouraging and I am thrilled so many people read and enjoy it.

Chapter 28

Sitting in the middle of the room, on a low table, rose the most enormous cake she had ever seen. It stood taller than her – and she was tall for a woman – tier upon tier of sugar-spun confectionary. She circled the amazing structure in awe. Small pagodas housed mythical creatures, whilst nymphs, draped in small garlands of ivy, frolicked around the edges. Each tier told a different story, culminating at the top. On the uppermost layer, a small temple had been created, shimmering gold in the candlelight, decorated with the royal crest and held at each side by a half man, half beast. She moved closer now, fascinated. The top of the temple was made from tiny strands that sparkled in the flickering flames of the wall sconces, so delicate, so fragile. Small holes had been set into each tier and tiny candles – inside equally small holders – were laid beside it, ready to add the final touch.

'What are you doing in here?' She spun round at the sound of the gruff voice. Standing behind her was a small man, dressed in the manner of a cook. He looked rather agitated, beads of sweat glistened upon his brow. She smiled sweetly and looked apologetic.

'Forgive me, Monsieur, I fear I have taken a wrong turn in my haste. But this cake, it is the most wonderful creation I have ever seen. Are you the man responsible?' For once there was no guile, she really was in awe of the skill involved in creating such an object.

'What if I am?' The man was certainly very twitchy. Milady frowned and gave the man a bow of her head.

'Apologies, Monsieur, I meant no offence. I am sure you are busy, I will leave you to your work.' Puzzled, she hurried from the room. The man's behaviour was indeed strange, but then it must have taken hours to complete the magnificent cake, and he had yet to transport it safely to the Queen's presence. Dismissing the man and his confection, she pondered over her next move. She was still deliberating, when she heard voices coming from the ballroom; the music had stopped and yes, definitely raised voices. Returning through the main door was out of the question as she did not wish to be noticed. Quietly, she retraced her steps back through the room where she had seen the trysting couple and emerged at the far side of the ballroom. All attention was on the King and – _my God_ – on Athos! He stood in front of Gaston hands clenched by his sides.

She recognised that stance – he wasn't just angry, he was livid. Carefully, she moved though the fascinated crowd to gain a better view, coming to a stop where she could now hear every word as well as see.

Whilst she had been busy admiring the birthday cake, Treville had reached Athos' side, passing no comment on his appearance, but merely raising a brow and adding a warm smile.

'Not you too?' Athos sighed. Treville chuckled and eyed the broad grins on the faces of Aramis and Porthos.

'If our marksman gets out of hand, ask Porthos to tell you about the time Aramis had to dress as a woman to get our card sharp out of trouble.' He smirked to himself as he observed the look of glee that passed across Athos' face.

'Thank you,' he nodded, a mischievous glint in his eye. 'Captain!' Athos' voice was suddenly urgent, and Treville felt the man beside him stiffen. He followed Athos' line of sight and noticed Richelieu talking to Gaston, but it was the fact he was gesticulating toward Athos that held his attention. Treville, started forward, but Athos reached out and placed a hand upon his arm. 'Wait, let us see what transpires. It may be nothing.' Treville, stood still, but his heart had begun to race. The Cardinal had that insidious sneer upon his face and, as Treville was all too aware, that always indicated trouble. Aramis caught his Captain's expression and, nudging Porthos, immediately went on the alert. Both men followed Treville's gaze and saw the conversation unfolding between Richelieu and Gaston.

'Where is he?' Gaston exploded. 'What is he doing here? He isn't even a Musketeer, I have since discovered.' He turned to where the Cardinal was indicating Athos' position. The room fell silent in an instant and the musicians, sensing a drama, ceased playing. All eyes were on Gaston and Athos. The King had, up until now, ignored Gaston's ranting – it had not taken long for him to recall just how annoying his little brother could be. However, Louis, too, now turned to look toward Treville and his errant sword master. _So much for mingling_ , thought Athos. He held Gaston's gaze, his own stare cold, but without expression.

Athos noted three Red Guards march in through the main door, closely shadowed by two Musketeers. His hand dropped to his side, feeling nothing but an empty space where the hilt of his sword should have been. He considered his position – not good. Fighting his way out of the King's ballroom had never been an option, it would have been suicide. He doubted he would have fought alone, but he would not bring Aramis and Porthos into his fight. No, he would have to hope common sense would prevail. Deciding to at least defend himself, he began to walk toward the furious Duke – it was not necessary for the whole debacle to turn into a yelling match across the room.

Athos took his time. As he approached the royal party, he bowed low and, for once, was glad of his attire as, knowing Louis, he was hoping that it might help sway the man's judgement. He toyed briefly with the notion of revealing his identity, but he knew he would not do it, not unless his life depended upon it –though deep inside he wondered if he would admit such a thing even then.

'This man… this peasant, has been arrogant, argumentative and physically abusive. He is not even a Musketeer, yet he made all the decisions, and showed a complete lack of respect toward me. Our party suffered one tragedy after another, and he did nothing.' Aramis and Porthos began to step forward but Athos gave the slightest shake of his head.

Milady listened enthralled, and on hearing Gaston's accusations, she gave the ghost of a smile. She could quite imagine the calm, almost arrogant tone her... _Athos_ would have used on this ridiculous excuse for royalty. What she could not understand was Athos' role with the Musketeers. She had asked around and learnt the background to the flogging, depending, of course, on whose version was to be believed. But why was the Comte de la Fère living alongside Musketeers in the garrison? She was aware that Athos knew how to handle a sword, though she had never had cause to see him in action, but sword master? It made no sense. She followed the situation with bated breath.

'Your Majesty…' Athos did not manage anything more, before Treville interrupted. The Captain stood at Athos' side, glaring at Gaston. He was not going to let Athos have the opportunity to deal with this alone, especially after the punishment he endured last time they had stood before the King. This time the man had done nothing wrong.

'Your Majesty, allow me to explain.' To be honest, Louis was rather enjoying the unusual turn of events. He had begun to tire of the party anyway – the cake should have arrived by now and this would make an interesting diversion until it was delivered.

'We are all ears, Captain,' Louis declared. Gaston attempted to object, but Louis cut him off. 'No, let my Captain speak. I think we are all more than familiar with your version of events by now.' The King rolled his eyes dramatically and Gaston turned from white to red, from anger to humiliation. The hatred in his eyes as he stared at Athos made Aramis wonder, for the second time in the last few days, whether the man was slightly mad.

Treville cleared his throat. There was not the slightest noise, every single person in the room being transfixed by the unexpected developments. 'I am sure Your Majesty remembers that one of the reasons I sent Monsieur Athos on this mission in the first place, was because of his prior dealings with the nobility. My Musketeers are, after all, soldiers, and I thought the Duke would prefer to liaise with someone more comfortable with his position.' Once again, Gaston tried to intervene, but this time it was a look from Treville that shut him up. 'It was at the Duke's insistence that the party left Toury – my men recommended waiting but he would not listen. The weather was wholly unsuitable for coach travel, and the resulting accident could have been avoided had he listened to their advice.

'When the carriage overturned, my men did everything they could to repair the injuries suffered. The Duke incurred a dislocated arm, which Monsieur Athos dealt with. I, myself, have performed such a procedure many times, and I can assure you that there is no pleasant way to relocate the limb. As to the death of Lord Montmorency, Athos and Aramis were on watch outside the Duke's room all night to ensure his safety. The death was a tragic event, which could not have been foreseen, and it is ill-considered of the Duke to blame Athos for the incidents he has described.'

Louis nodded to Treville. 'Thank you, Captain, I am sure your men did everything they could. I know my brother can be taxing – still he is my brother. However, I do not like having to say I told you so, but I was not happy with the idea of… Athos accompanying my Musketeers in the first place. I understood your reasons, but after all, he is only at the garrison to train your men to fight. This could all have been avoided. But none of that explains _why,_ he is at _my_ party. I think it best he leaves, we will discuss what to do with him tomorrow. From now on, keep him in the garrison, Treville, and away from my brother.' Louis turned his attention back to Rochefort, starting up a new conversation, to indicate that he was finished with his previous one. Gradually, voices returned to normal and, now they had new gossip to digest, conversations raged once more.

Gaston, still seething, managed a sly smirk, and nodded to the equally smug Cardinal. Athos turned and strode across the room. Treville called after him, but the man took no notice. Two of the Red Guards who had arrived earlier halted his progress as he reached the door. They sneered in unison, one of them stepping closer to Athos and whispering:

'Shame, we were hopin' 'e would throw you back in the Châtelet, so we could finish what we started. Don't think we have forgotten.' He only backed away when Athos took a step forward, until he was only inches away from the guard's face.

'Get out of my way and I won't kill you.' Athos replied, his voice low but dripping with menace. The guard's smirk disappeared, and he did as the man requested. Athos pushed open the doors and left the room, almost knocking over the two Musketeers in the corridor as he did so. Watching Athos' reaction, Treville had nodded to Aramis and Porthos to go after him. There had been enough drama for one night, and he was grateful it had only ended in Athos being thrown out, rather than back in jail. For a moment, he had feared it would be touch and go though, as judging from the man's exit, he may not be finished.

However, Treville was more interested in the Cardinal at present – he knew his two Musketeers could deal with Athos. The First Minister had an agitated air about him that was unusual; the sudden appearance of the extra Musketeers and Red Guard had unsettled his self-satisfied demeanour. It was rare to see the man discomfited, his grin sickly and fixed in place. He whispered something to the still furious Duke.

Gaston could not let the matter rest and stood before his brother clenching and unclenching his fists. 'This is a disgrace! I have been dragged across the country in the foulest of weather, to be embarrassed by a peasant and degraded by my own brother.' Gaston had been away too long. He appeared to have forgotten that although Louis was many things, he was no fool. The King would tolerate much – if he was in a good mood – but he would not allow anyone to raise their voice to him. After all, he was the King of France.

'Degraded?' Louis stood abruptly, and once more a hush spread around the room. ' _You_ have been degraded? _You_ should have been punished for treason, _you_ should have had your miserable head removed upon the guillotine. Instead I allowed _you_ to live. I allowed _you_ to maintain your standard of living. I allowed _you_ to come to my dearest wife's party. I gave _you_ the opportunity to admit your errors, to apologise. Now _you_ say you have been degraded!' Louis' voice had hardened, and he looked down upon his fidgeting brother from the dais upon which he had been seated. Gaston was nervous, realising he had overstepped the mark. He licked his thin lips and considered his next move. It would have to be good, or he may find himself in the Bastille.

Athos strode down the corridor, the two Musketeers following closely in his wake. 'Athos, wait, stop, we need to talk.' Aramis attempted to slow down their errant friend, but to no avail. Athos abruptly turned a corner, showing no sign of slowing down, until the sight before him abruptly halted his advance. Coming toward him was the strangest object he had ever seen. Two Red Guards were slowly pushing a table down the middle of the corridor, one on each side. In front of them, walking backwards, was a small man dressed in the mode of a baker, yelling instructions at the bemused guards as he hopped from one foot to the other. Athos was so engrossed in the peculiar scene he did not see the man walking toward him, until they collided. Snapping back to attention Athos caught the man's eye.

'Forgive me,' the swordsman managed through gritted teeth. The stranger sneered and looked as though he was about to react, but a glance at Athos' clothing stilled his tongue, obviously taking him for a noble guest from the party. With one final glare the man stalked off, following the strange party down the passageway toward the ballroom. The event had given Aramis and Porthos time to catch up with Athos and, for a second, they all stood staring after the disappearing party.

'Was that a cake?' Porthos asked, eyes full of wonder. Aramis chuckled and slapped the big man on the shoulder.

'If it was, I doubt you will have a chance to sample it.' They quickly resumed their task, realising Athos was once more on the move. 'What is it my friend, you look puzzled?' Aramis quizzed Athos. In fact, he was relieved that puzzlement had replaced the unsuppressed fury of earlier. Athos did not reply, but then Aramis had not expected him to.

Athos was trying to slot into place the images and ideas that were whirling around in his head. The same images and ideas, and fragments of conversation, that had been haunting him ever since they had collected the Duke from Orleans. The Duke's fake surprise upon receiving the invitation, the insistence they travel despite the weather – but there was more. The silent figure in the tavern in Toury – why had he made such and impression? Then suddenly the pieces began to form a picture. A man on the stairs, a box he held with such care. The look in his eyes as they had collided. That look, he had seen that look tonight. He stopped and smote his forehead. Turning on his heel he began to run.

'Quickly, the King. He is in danger!' Athos declared. Aramis and Porthos exchanged looks of surprise but did not hesitate to race after Athos.

'What's up?' Porthos asked as he pounded down the corridor.

'The cake,' was all Athos replied. Two Red Guards blocked their way as they rounded the corner, but Athos, wasting no time, brought his fist up, knocking the first guard off his feet. Confident that Aramis or Porthos would deal with the second one, he grabbed the fallen man's sword before racing off once more. A lone figure stood in a doorway biting his lip. It must nearly be time, the cake had not long been wheeled past where he was hiding. Perhaps these men were part of the proceedings. He would let them go first, he didn't want them to spoil his big entrance.

Three more guards appeared. Athos rolled his eyes – why did they always turn up when you least had need of them? The three men drew their swords and formed a line. Athos engaged the first soldier, he had no time for honourable rules. His sword clashed with the guard's weapon, and as he parried the next attack, he slid his sword along the other man's blade. When their faces were inches apart, Athos brought his forehead down upon his opponents' nose, and as the man staggered away, Athos drove his sword into the man's chest and pushed him to the ground. Porthos had just rendered his opposition senseless, as only Porthos could, but Aramis, crowded in the middle, still fended off his guard. Athos had no time to waste, he pulled the dagger from his belt and threw it with his left hand, the blade embedding itself into the man's thigh. Aramis gave a brief nod of thanks.

The man lay groaning on the floor between his dead and senseless colleagues, but he would live. Athos headed down the corridor once more – nothing was going to get in his way and kill he would if he had to. The double doors were now in sight, but even Athos stopped when Gaston threw them open and marched into view. The Duke paused slightly when he saw the three men approaching but, after hesitating, he continued to hurry toward them.

'Where do you think you are going?' Athos demanded.

'How dare you address me so! Did you not hear what my brother said?' Athos sneered and grabbed Gaston's arm.

'My memory is poor, return with me and we will ask him to repeat it.' Gaston's eyes became wide with fear. He pulled at his arm, but Athos had it in a firm grip.

'Take your hands off me, I am not going anywhere. Let me go, get out of my way.' whined the Duke. Athos snarled at the pathetic worm.

'Very well, if you will not come with us you will have to stay here.' Gaston was about to protest, when a ferocious punch from Athos caught him in the jaw, sending the Duke clean off his feet and onto his backside. Porthos let out a loud guffaw and Aramis began to chuckle.

'No time,' Athos hissed, and raced toward the large ornate doors, leaving the unconscious Gaston in a far from flattering heap. The two Musketeers outside the doors looked on with horror as they saw Athos punch the King's brother, Aramis and Porthos apparently abetting his actions. They pulled their weapons, unsure of their position.

'Brothers, stand aside, the King is in danger!' Aramis shouted, as Athos reached the startled men. They wavered for only a second before standing aside and allowing the three breathless men to enter.

A few minutes earlier, Gaston had been desperately trying to come up with a witty remark to defuse the situation he now found himself in with his brother. At that moment, the doors had opened, and a collective gasp had filled the room. Louis had gazed over his brother's shoulder and immediately forgotten his existence.

'Come, come, my dear, see what I have for you.' Louis took his wife's hand and led her over to where the small table holding the towering cake had been placed. The whole room was agog, and a round of genteel applause greeted the small man's bow.

'Your Highness, Monsieur Trambeaut, my humble offering for your birthday.' He bowed low as the King and Queen stood awestruck by the confectionary marvel.

'Monsieur, it is magnificent,' the Queen responded.

'Do you like it, my dear? I designed it myself.' The King was grinning with his usual childish glee and the baker backed away toward the door. Spying the man's departure Louis called to him.

'Can we eat it all my man? Even the little people?' The baker looked slightly alarmed but nodded enthusiastically.

'Of course, Your Majesty, of course.' The King frowned for a moment.

'Have you forgotten something Trambeaut?' The baker looked panic stricken, but just then a stranger stepped forward.

'Allow me, Your Majesty, I have prepared the ornaments so that you only have to hold the taper.' He produced a long thin rod from his side and held it to one of the many flaming sconces adorning the walls. The crowd gasped as he offered it to the mesmerised King. Clapping with excitement, Louis took the flaming spill, approached the cake and, one by one, began to light the candles. As he moved from tier to tier, a footman approached and produced a pair of ornate steps adorned with ivy and flowers. Louis carefully placed his foot on the first rung and lit another set of candles; already he could feel the heat from the dozens of small flames now flickering around the iced tower. Another step and another tier alight – now that just left the candle that grew from the small temple on the pinnacle of the cake.

The King paused for effect, smiling at the delighted Queen as he held the taper to the small wick. For a moment, nothing happened, then the candle hissed, and the wick began to burn. Treville was not standing near the cake when the King began to light the myriad of candles as, like everyone else, he had been overwhelmed by the sheer novelty of the endeavour. But as he watched the final candle bloom, he could not help feeling unsettled, something about it bothered him.

Just then, the doors burst open and in dashed Athos, followed by Aramis, Porthos and two more of his Musketeers.

'The King and Queen!' ordered Athos. Aramis leapt toward the shocked Queen, bringing her to the ground and shielding her from harm. Porthos had the unenviable job of tackling the furious King. He pinned him to the floor, terrified he might do Louis more harm from his sheer size than whatever it was Athos feared. As the two Musketeers hit the ground, Athos grabbed hold of the table. Luckily it was on wheels. Seeing the wick of the uppermost candle hissing as it burnt its way closer to the cake, he took one look around and, seeing Treville heading in his direction, he wasted no more time. Grabbing the edge of the wheeled table, he gave it one almighty push, sending it flying toward the window. Putting his entire weight behind it, the momentum increased and, as it hit the floor-to-ceiling windows, the table shattered the glass. Treville's last sighting was of the glittering cake hovering for a moment in the darkened sky, before plummeting from view, with Athos still holding onto the table, as both were consumed by the night.

Then, all at once, a huge booming noise shattered the shocked silence. Smoke billowed through the now gaping hole where the windows had been, and flying debris shot across the room, glass, brick and dust forming thick clouds; screams rent the air, and bloodied bodies scrambled over the fallen, desperate to exit the devastated room.

Suddenly the doors flew open once more. The already terrified guests screamed and attempted to turn around. A man ran into the chaos brandishing a pistol – those who remembered the event afterwards, swore he was smiling. He looked around the room and, his eyes alighting on the dishevelled and bloodied Rochefort, who was lying on top of a sobbing Donna Maria, he waved the gun even more. As the madman looked in his direction, the Comte rolled his eyes in contempt, pulled out his gun, and shot him dead. The man looked totally surprised, falling to the floor with the expression still frozen upon his face.

Athos had made his choice. There was no other way to stop the bomb, for he was sure that was what was inside the large cake. He had to get it out of the room and the door was too far away. The window was the only choice. As the table impacted the glass, he heard a voice scream his name. Treville… no a woman… no Treville… Confused, he leapt into nothing, and closing his eyes, waited for the inevitable blast.


	29. Chapter 29

Chapter 29

Athos had had no time to consider the consequences of his actions. It was a simple choice between allowing the bomb to explode inside the palace or, risking his life to save the King – not really a choice at all. Deep inside, he could tell himself he had been saving the King of France, but really his first thoughts were of Aramis, Porthos and, of course, Treville. When he had seen the Captain walking towards him, his only thought had been to get the bomb as far away as possible from those who had cared for him.

For an instant, he felt as though he was suspended in mid-air. He still gripped the table, though his assistance was no longer required. In fact, his survival cried out for just the opposite – now he needed to create as much distance as he could between himself and the deadly creation. Not for a second did he doubt his instinct, and not once did he consider what would happen if in the next few minutes no bomb exploded, making him guilty of the inexcusable destruction of the Queen's birthday cake.

The table began its final descent to the ground, several feet below. Athos groaned as he bounced off a particularly large carving which adorned the edge of an inconsiderately placed window frame. Somewhere amidst the chaos inside his head, he was aware his subconscious was yelling something about those uncomfortable protrusions, but it was not until his shoulder encountered a second one, and extremely painfully, that he perceived their use. Falling through the air, the killer confection a mere inch below him, he grabbed at the next gargoyle with both hands. His body jolted, and he felt both shoulders scream in complaint as his descent came to an abrupt halt. His sockets held, and for a moment he hung there, suspended as though time itself had frozen.

Then a sudden roaring filled his ears, and the object he clung onto with such desperation began rising into the air – with Athos still attached. Flames shot past him, and he felt as though he were being burnt to a cinder. _Perhaps this is what hell feels like_ , he thought. Without warning, he began to drop with increasing rapidity, notwithstanding the fact he was clutching at a rather heavy stone gargoyle at the time. Athos closed his eyes – so was this the end? So be it, at least it had been an honourable end. Perhaps at this final moment he had not disgraced the name of de la Fère, perhaps he had done something to make his father proud. A sudden excruciating pain – then nothing.

Milady had watched Athos and the cake disappear out of the window, but she did not wait around to discover what happened next. She possessed a heightened sense of self-protection and was acutely aware that staying in the ballroom was a very bad idea, and that she might be of use to others should she stay, did not register on her conscience at all. She was mindful of the many secret passages within the Louvre – many sources of information could be uncovered lurking between the walls and rooms of so great a political hub. As she hurried down the stairs within one such corridor, she pushed open a heavy wooden door to find herself in a lower storeroom. The room held casks of ale and such like, nothing of interest. Without pausing, she hurried up a short flight of stairs, to find herself in the quiet of the palace grounds.

Only now they were no longer quiet. Screams echoed from the floors above and, as she stared skyward, she was aware of flames shooting out from the ballroom window several floors above. But that was not what interested her. She grabbed a sconce from the wall and rushed to the spot where man and cake must have landed. No one had yet considered attending the scene, and she drew in a deep shuddering breath as she spotted a dark blot on the ground within the beam of her small flame. The surrounding area was littered with blobs of gold and white, small crumbs, all that remained of the magnificent cake. She forced the sconce into the ground and knelt beside the still form.

Athos was lying on his back, his position relaxed, as if he had simply laid down and gone to sleep. She paused, frozen for a moment, not knowing what to do. She had waited for this moment, fantasised about it, but now she felt helpless – this was not the sense of euphoria she had so often imagined. Reaching out, she touched his brow. Still warm, but then he had ceased to breathe but minutes ago. Her own breath, still warm and alive, hitched in her throat, and a small sob escaped. Tentatively, she brushed the hair back from his face and looked over the broken form. Large shards of glass stuck out from his legs and torso at horrific angles, the light from her torch reflecting upon them, making it seem as though small fires burnt upon him, dancing in the darkness. The hand at her side felt warm and wet and, as she lifted it to her face, she realised his blood was running freely over her fingers. It dripped from their tips to the white snow that still lay in the shadow of the walls, pooling beneath the dark head of curls, as his life's blood ebbed away into the cold ground.

'Oh, Athos, why? Who in that room was worth risking your life for? Who will think any better of you?' She lowered her head to his, and her tears fell freely upon his now cooling skin. A sudden cry from the doorway made her jump. As figures approached, she bent hurriedly, and for the last time kissed her husband upon the lips. They were still warm and soft, and a moan of pain escaped her own mouth, as she forced herself to stand and leave him lying alone on the frozen ground. She had no time left to debate her feelings, for she could not be found here beside the corpse. Turning into the night, she did what she did best. She fled, leaving others to face the reality of the moment.

Closest to the blast when it came, Aramis lay covering the prostrate form of the Queen, his ears ringing, and sounds of screaming and shouting coming to him as though from a great distance. He shook his head, in a vain attempt to clear his muddled senses, dust and debris falling from his hair. It was then he remembered who lay beneath him, and when he saw red drops of blood upon the pale skin his heart jarred within his chest.

'Your Majesty, are you well?' He wiped the blood from her face, but could not see any cuts or lesions upon her skin. As she began to moan, her eyes fluttered for a moment before opening very slowly. 'Your Majesty, are you injured?' the marksman enquired again. She looked alarmed, but then a small smile spread upon her face and she spoke:

'No Aramis, but I must admit breathing is somewhat difficult with you lying on top of me.' The Musketeer rolled off his Queen and apologised profusely,

'My apologies, Your Highness, I did not mean to presume. You are bleeding, where are you hurt?' The Queen frowned for a moment and brushed at her cheek with her fingers. Just then, another small drop of blood appeared upon her cheek, making the dust run down her chin in a rivulet of red. Concerned, she lifted her hand to the Musketeer's forehead.

'It is not I who is injured, it is you. Your head is bleeding, do you not feel it?' Aramis touched his forehead and suddenly realised that it hurt – not a deliberating pain, just the stinging of a deep cut. Reassured he would live, he smiled at the Queen in return.

'It is nothing Your Majesty, just a small scratch. As long as you are not injured, all is well. Allow me to help you stand, we must get you to safety.' She nodded her head, and then panic filled her features.

'Where is Louis? Where is my husband?' Aramis looked through the clouds of dust and smoke to where he had last seen the King. As he helped the Queen to her feet, he tried his hardest not to smile, aware that Porthos was also assisting His Majesty to stand, though his charge appeared a little less grateful.

'Get off me, you great oaf! Where is my wife? What on earth happened? What did that fool of a man do now? And where is my cake?' Aramis and the Queen stared open-mouthed as Porthos, for want of any idea of how he should placate the furious monarch, proceeded to swipe at something adhering to his hair. He placed it on his lips and looked thoughtful, before nodding his head wisely. 'I believe the cake is all over the room Your Majesty. And as to that _fool_ , I think he just saved both your life, and the lives of everyone else attending the party.' Porthos offered the monarch his best glower. The King, not yet quite himself, reverted to his usual childlike ways.

'He has ruined my party! Where is the Cardinal?' He pushed past Porthos and, on seeing his wife, rushed to her side, relieved to see that she was unhurt. At that point, Treville appeared out of the melee, where people were still screaming and scrabbling for the door. When the tall frame was jarred yet again, as the ornate doors hit their frame, the chaos died down for a moment, and those attempting to flee the terror looked on in horror, as yet _more_ death loomed in their midst. A man stood in the yawning gap waving a pistol, though he seemed to be doing it with a somewhat grim smile upon his face. The frozen masses turned in unison and began to run in the opposite direction, just as the sound of gunfire erupted. When no one screamed, they all turned for a fraction of a second, not knowing now which direction afforded them the safest route. The stranger lay face down upon the floor with a smug Rochefort standing over the body, a smoking pistol in one hand, whilst comforting the sobbing Donna Maria with the other.

To say the whole situation was bizarre, was putting it mildly. As always, it was Treville who bought order to the moment, and began to establish some perspective. He emerged from the clouds of smoke and dust like a grey spectre. Wasting no time, he yelled at the staggering Red Guards, who were brushing themselves down, and knocking small grass fragments from their skin.

'You, get water, douse those drapes now!' The two guards looked shocked for a second before exiting the room and following the Captain's instructions. 'Leclerc, Royer, take the King and Queen to safety, I will locate the First Minister.' Without hesitation, the two Musketeers did his bidding.

Treville turned to Aramis and Porthos. 'What are you two waiting for? Athos, quickly!' Needing no further encouragement, they ran from the room, leaving Treville to smooth their way.

The King, still pouting and angry, stamped his foot. 'Excellent! It is about time that man was locked up, he is a liability. You should have heeded my warning, Treville.' Then, looking around as though he had suddenly realised he had lost something, he cried, 'You must find the Cardinal… I need him.' He then allowed himself and the Queen to be led from the room although, as he was ushered through the doorway, he was still complaining about the unfairness of it all. Glancing at the Queen, Treville saw that she looked pale, and was certain that she was in shock.

He gazed at the scene around him. The curtains were now a black smoking mass, but at least the flames had been extinguished. There was a body slumped against the wall and, from the remnants of the clothing, Treville recognised it as that of the small baker, whose nervous demeanour had now been explained by the unexpected demise of his creation. The Captain decided to risk a closer look out of the huge hole that now adorned the palace wall, the scene he witnessed below as disturbing as any inside the room. He saw that Aramis and Porthos were just arriving at the spot where Athos had fallen, and the cry that issued as if from his marksman's soul, told him all he needed to know.

'Dammit,' he muttered to himself, 'Why did he have to jump? Couldn't he have simply pushed it through the window? No, of course not, not Athos.' He recalled the look upon the young man's face as he had turned to see Treville walking toward him. Had it been an apology? Did he know what he intended to do? 'Dammit,' he said again, and strode amidst the carnage. There was much to be done.

'Treville…' A croaky voice, dry and broken, reached the Captain's ears. Even in such a state, he recognised the tone. Turning quickly, he followed the sound to a particularly large piece of masonry, underneath which lay the Cardinal. He was bleeding from a nasty cut to the head, but the larger part of the brickwork had missed much of his body, and he was trapped mainly by his clothing.

Treville cleared away as much of the rumble as he could, and helped the First Minister into a sitting position. 'Are you injured? Is anything broken?' Treville asked urgently. The man shook his head, tentatively lifting his hand to his bleeding temple.

'Only a bang to the head, it will heal. What happened? Was it really the cake?' Richelieu looked incredulous, and Treville nodded, frowning. The Captain halted a dazed looking servant and indicated that he needed water. Glad of something to do, the young footman scurried away. As he handed him the cup, Treville thanked the boy, whose eyes, the Captain could see, were wide with fear as he turned to help the injured guests. Treville held the cup for Richelieu to drink; at least the First Minister did not tend to fuss and moan.

'Thank you. Your man… he threw the cake out of the window?' Richelieu asked the question and Treville sunk his head, giving only a slight nod. Looking up, he answered the Cardinal.

'Yes. I don't know how he worked it out, but he knew.'

'Perhaps he was in on it all along?' Richelieu sneered, but watched the Musketeer for any sign of acknowledgment. This time the Captain was not going to let the accusation go. Amongst others, Athos had given his life for this idiot.

'What, and then pushed it out of the window, killing himself in the process? What exactly would that achieve? And where was the King's brother whilst all of this was happening? I don't see the weasel anywhere about, do you?' Richelieu looked stricken.

'The King, where is the King?' Treville almost felt for the man, who, for once, looked genuinely concerned. He placed his hand upon Richelieu's shoulder to prevent him from rising.

'Both he and the Queen are unhurt, though it has not stopped him complaining.' He raised a brow and looked at the First Minister, gauging his reaction. Richelieu nodded and small grin appeared for a second, before he resumed his usual arrogant expression.

'I must go to him. He will be asking for me.'

'He was,' Treville agreed. 'Good luck. Oh, and do not fill his head with conspiracies involving Athos. He saved all of our lives.' The look he gave the First Minister told the man he brooked no argument and, if he did not comply, he would have to deal with a very angry Musketeer Captain. Not that Richelieu was afraid of the man, but he knew when to pick his battles and, to be honest, he did not think Athos had been involved. He had witnessed first-hand how he had instructed the King and Queen to be guarded before he had plunged from the room with the bomb.

Aramis and Porthos ran along the corridors, ignoring shouts from guards and Musketeers alike, though they did note that Gaston no longer lay slumped where they had left him. Dashing out into the freezing night, their boots crunched on the remains of the frozen snow as they searched for the spot where Athos had fallen. It wasn't too difficult – several Guards had beaten them to it, and were pointing their weapons at the inert body. Aramis' heart sank. He must live.

'Get away from 'im,'Porthos growled, barrelling into the group of men. They looked at the two Musketeers as though they were mad.

'He blew us all up,' one of them retaliated.

'You bloody fool, he saved all our lives, and that of the King and Queen!' A furious Porthos pushed the mouthy guard out of the way, just as another one sneered:

'Well it didn't do 'im any good did it? At least it will save a court hearing.' He sniggered, but only for a second, until Porthos' large fist collided with his face.

'Get 'im out of here before I kill 'im,' the big man snarled, fists at the ready. The guards obediently supported their bleeding colleague and backed away.

'You Musketeers, you are all mad.' Porthos watched them retreat, but it was the anguished cry from Aramis that made him turn his attention back to Athos.

'Nooo. Why?' Aramis sunk his head upon Athos' chest and cried like a baby. Porthos didn't know how to react.

'Are you sure?' He grabbed a sconce from out of the ground – an odd place to find one, but he shrugged it off, holding it aloft. He knelt next to a distraught Aramis and stroked Athos' forehead, it was cold, and his hand came away wet and sticky. It was then that he noticed the pool of blood beneath the pale face. In the light from the flame, Athos looked so young – long lashes gently resting on too pale skin. Porthos closed his eyes and his hand slid from Athos' face onto his neck, clutching it as though he were holding it for one last time. Something was wrong, he frowned and moved his fingers to gain a better position.

'Aramis, he has a pulse.' The medic sat up abruptly. Wiping his eyes he pulled off his gloves.

' _Merde_ , I am a fool.' He placed his fingers over his friend's throat and looked at Porthos in wonderment. 'He lives, my God, he lives!' He began feeling over Athos' body, trying to decide if it was safe to move him. He muttered in horror as his search was hampered by the shards of glass that covered the still form.

'Aramis, we must move him. He will freeze to death lying in this snow. He is bleeding out whilst we sit here and consider his other injuries.' Aramis looked glazed, and Porthos wondered if his friend had not sustained some form of concussion from the bomb, for he did not seem as aware of the situation as normal. Finally, the marksman nodded, and looked to Porthos to take control. No, definitely not himself, thought Porthos. He made to lift Athos into his arms.

'The glass.' Aramis reached out and stopped Porthos from lifting the inert figure. 'He is covered in glass.' Aramis' voice cracked and he looked lost. Porthos rested his hand upon his friend's arm.

'It will be fine, I will lift him carefully.' He gently pushed Aramis' hand away and began to lift Athos into his arms. 'Get the horses, we need to get him back to the garrison. Go Aramis!' Porthos was not used to giving the orders, he was always happy to follow Aramis' lead, or more recently Athos'. He was happy to share his views, or to complain if he did not agree, but to take the lead in an emergency such as this, was odd. He glanced over at Aramis once more, and watched as he ran ahead to organise transport back to the garrison.

Aramis had brought back their horses, deciding they did not have time for a cart. As Porthos lifted the body up onto his own mount, he could not help but remember the last time they did this. It had not been so long ago, and the memory was still fresh, but at least that time they believed he would live. This time he was not so sure. Perhaps Athos had used up all of his lives, or perhaps he had ended it in his own way. It was still a fear that haunted Porthos, though he did not share his concern with his religious friend. Aramis would not wish to believe Athos still entertained the notion of his own end. He climbed up behind the trembling body and held it as close as he could, afraid that his large arms would press the vicious glass daggers further into his friend's body. Athos' head fell back onto Porthos' shoulder, and he could feel the warm blood upon his cheek. He still bled – not good, not good at all.

The atrocity inside the ballroom was not as bad as Treville had initially expected. Most of the blood he had witnessed had resulted from flying glass and broken chandeliers. Apart from the baker, a footman and an elderly baron – whose heart he suspected had given out – there were no other fatalities. Unless, of course, you included the madman, who had burst in and been shot by Rochefort. Treville needed to give that some thought, but later. He was not happy with the event, though, as yet, he was not sure why. Most of the guests had now been led away; the King's physician, after ensuring His Majesty was well, had attended the guests and prioritised those who needed stitches or could be released to their accommodation. The room was now empty.

Shocked servants were attempting to clean up what they could, but it was clear that their hearts were not in it. Treville would have sent them to rest, or at least take a stiff drink, but he knew their lot was not the lot of his Musketeers, and he suspected they dared not shirk from their tasks, no matter how shocked or terrified they might be. Sighing, he turned to leave the room. He must check on the King before Richelieu had the opportunity to spew more lies and innuendo into the monarch's ears.

As the Musketeer Captain walked down the corridor, he was not aware that his demeanour was not quite as commanding as normal. If it had been, he doubted the Red Guard Captain would have approached him with his complaint.

'Treville, your men are a disgrace. One of them has just broken one of my men's nose. He was only guarding the corpse of that renegade of yours. You need to give them a flogging more often. You are too soft.' Treville looked at the man, and could almost see the scene erupting over Athos' body.

'I would say your man got off lightly. If it was Porthos, I am surprised he did not kill him.' Flambeaux's face flamed red but, just as he was about to speak, one of his men hurried up to him and whispered in his ear. Flambeaux looked livid and glared at Treville.

'Well, we will see just what transpires. It seems the mad bomber still lives, though probably not for long.' He turned on his heel, not waiting for the shocked Captain to reply. Treville began to move – for once the King could wait and he, Treville, would face the consequences.

When Louis saw the Cardinal enter his chamber, his eyes brimmed over with tears. 'My dear Richelieu, you live. I was so afraid you had perished.' He clutched the surprised cleric in an embrace, and then held him at arm's length so that he could look at him. 'Tell me, do you think it was Gaston? Did my brother just try to kill me?' He looked to the Cardinal, hoping he would discount his fears.

'It seems your brother was not in the room when the bomb exploded. Nobody had seen him, and his whereabouts are unknown. Other than that, we have no information.' Louis looked like a small boy who had just been bitten by his new puppy. Then he lifted his chin, as though he had just remembered that he was the King.

'Then find him, Cardinal. Find him, and bring him to me.' Louis then turned, retreating into his bedroom, slamming the door as he went, and Richelieu found himself bowing to an empty space. The man considered he had got off lightly and, without lingering, stalked from the room – there was much to do.

When Aramis and Porthos reached the garrison, the guard had been doubled, and the men were on high alert. Though they had not received any firm information, they had heard the blast, and rumour was already spreading throughout the city. Whilst Porthos leapt down, gently lowering his cargo into his waiting arms, Aramis explained to the curious men what had happened. He sent a small contingent to check on Treville to see if he needed assistance, before hurrying into the infirmary. Porthos noted the response, and was relieved to see Aramis more himself than he had been earlier.

The big man carried the silent Athos into the infirmary and placed him on a bed. Both Musketeers looked down at the still form, as though not sure where to begin, but Aramis quickly kicked into his medic persona.

'Lift him up, I need to see that head wound.' Porthos pulled Athos toward him and held him as close as he dared, all the time mindful of the glass. One or two slivers had been jolted from the body by the movements of the horse, and blood now ran freely from several holes in the velvet coat. If only he had worn his own clothes, he may have been better armed, Porthos mused, looking over the torn and bloodied finery.

'It is a nasty cut. Odd it is not on the back of his head but at the side near the base of his skull. I will need to cut away some of this mop of hair, but I doubt he will even notice.' He eyed Porthos, his expression revealing the lack of confidence in his claim. Would Athos even awake to find out what had befallen him? If he did, Aramis would rejoice in any admonishment the swordsman might make as to the shoring of his locks. Calmly, sensing panic in Aramis' voice, Porthos spoke:

'What do you want me to do?' Aramis shook his head and looked at Porthos' gentle smile. Taking a deep breath Aramis replied:

'We need another pair of hands.' He jumped when a third voice entered the quiet conversation, but it was with joy not fear. 'Captain!' Treville gave a tenuous smile and walked up to the bed.

'How is he?' he asked, his voice low, as though Athos was only sleeping. Aramis looked serious, but Porthos was again reassured when the man began to list Athos' injuries in a clear and concise voice.

'He has a bad gash on the head, from which he has lost a great deal of blood. I need to stitch it together, as it still seeps. However, with Porthos holding him, I cannot hold the skin closed at the same time.' Again that slight hint of panic. Treville laid his hand upon the medic's shoulder.

'I can do that. What else ails him?' As he stripped off his doublet and washed his hands, Aramis talked.

'I do not know for definite. We had no time to assess him properly, he was freezing in the snow. There are dozens of glass shards embedded in his legs and torso, presumably resulting from the leap from the window. How bad or how deep, I do not know.' Porthos leant away from Athos to allow the Captain to take a look for himself. Treville frowned and looked at the big Musketeer. Porthos shrugged his shoulders and nodded slightly at Aramis, the expression on his face indicating the concern caused by his friend's behaviour.

'Are you hurt Aramis? The Captain asked, placing his hand on the young man's shoulder once more. Aramis looked at his superior as though the contact had hurt, and Treville withdrew his hand. 'Are you injured?' This time Aramis managed to shake his head, though the effort made him screw up his eyes.

'My head hurts and my hearing is poor. There is a ringing that I cannot shake, which I assume is from the bomb blast. A goodnight's sleep and I will be fine. But there is too much to do.' Treville understood and guessed that even if he ordered his Musketeer to stand down whilst a doctor was fetched, he would refuse to comply.

'Very well, I will assist you with stitching Athos' head, then Porthos and I will assess his other injuries whilst you make yourself a pain draught and rest for a while.' He raised his hand as Aramis made to object. ' _If_ you do not comply, I will have you escorted to your room and a doctor will be fetched for Athos. Do I make myself clear?' Aramis paled, but nodded his understanding. 'Then let us get on with it.' Treville declared.

Aramis poured what could never have been called a good brandy over Athos skull. It would suit their purpose well, though he could almost hear Athos' disdain at the waste. Sewing the wound was never going to be easy, skin around the skull was not loose, and trying to keep the edges together was almost impossible. More than once, Treville's fingers slipped in the blood still oozing from the wound; it was long and deep, leaving both men fearing what other damage had been done within his skull. At last, both men elicited a long sigh of relief as the wound was closed. Treville wiped the sweat that ran down his face and fetched them each a glass of water, while Porthos lay Athos down upon the cot.

Aramis felt the pale forehead, noticing how his skin had changed to grey, whilst his lips now held a bluish tinge. 'His skin is clammy, he has lost too much blood. We need a light solution of salt water, it may help replace some to the blood loss.' Treville moved. 'I will deal with that.' As he left the room, Porthos spoke severely to Aramis.

'Take that pain potion. You heard what Treville said. I can…' He glanced down at the too quiet figure. 'I can remove the glass.'

'Don't let any of it break off,' Aramis instructed, his face filled with concern.

'I won't. Now look to yourself. I'll call you if I am unsure.' Aramis nodded and disappeared to gather the necessary herbs. Athos would need some anyway, when he awoke, so it would be a good job done. He could hear the ominous sound of the glass as it clattered into the bowl, along with the angry mutterings of Porthos as he slowly removed one slither after another. He also noted the ripping of fabric as the velvet jacket was cut away from the larger pieces, ensuring that the big Musketeer could remove the shards intact.

Porthos poured the brandy over Athos' wounds. 'Some of these are big,' he mumbled. 'This one is as big as a dagger.' He looked up at Aramis, who was once more by his side. The medic held the wound open as best he could, so that they could be sure the embedded section came out in one piece. As the glass came clear, so the blood began to flow freely.

'Hold this down on the wound. We need to close it before he loses more blood. I do not like the colour of his complexion, his body cannot cope with losing anymore, and there are still several more pieces such as this to remove.' There was a slight break in his voice, and Porthos looked at the medic with concern.

'Did you take the bloody medicine?' he growled. Aramis looked guilty and took a few steps back, reaching for a ladle by the stove. He spooned a foul-smelling liquid into a beaker and drank it down, wrinkling his nose as he did so.

'Serves ya right,' said Porthos, trying to lighten the moment. 'It's about time you made something that didn't taste like it had been festering at the bottom of a well for too long.' Aramis managed to grin at his friend's remark then, nodding his head in thanks, returned to the task in hand.

'It might taste foul, but it will help my aching head. Now let us remove this glass.' Treville arrived back with the saline solution as well as a heavily-laden tray from the refectory.

'Serge says you must eat, or he will come over here and spoon-feed you himself. And you should know that he was brandishing a very large knife as he delivered his warning! The two men smiled and thanked their Captain. One-by-one, each of the shards was carefully removed, and when they had at last finished, it was already nearing midnight. Athos was covered in stitches, but the worst of the wounds were now closed, and he was no longer losing blood. By the time they had completed their task, dark bruises were appearing on the man's pale skin, mostly around his shoulders.

'Hold him up again, gently, I want to see his back.' As Porthos lifted Athos into his arms once more he heard the medic hiss sharply. Leaning over, Treville and Porthos peered into the candlelight, trying to see what had elicited the response. Athos' shoulders were covered in a dark bruise, with a deep mark now evident, along the back of his right shoulder in particular. Aramis followed the line of the mark with his finger and continued up into Athos' hair. 'I think the head wound and this bruise were made before he hit the ground. He must have collided with a balcony, or one of the stone figureheads, on his way down. If he was unconscious when he hit the floor, it might explain the lack of other problems, though we will not know for sure until he awakes.' Treville nodded his head.

As if Athos had heard them, he began to moan. Porthos hurriedly laid him back upon the bed and all three men stood still. Beads of sweat had appeared upon the patient's forehead, and he began to move his hand as if to ward off some unseen attacker. Aramis noticed he did not lift his left arm, only his right, and worried there might be a good reason for that. Athos was becoming agitated, and the medic knelt beside the thrashing figure. 'Hold him down, or he will rip out his stitches.' Treville held his legs whilst Porthos gently held down his shoulders, only making the distress worse. 'He thinks he is being attacked,' Aramis chided. 'Athos, it is I, Aramis, you are well, my friend. You are safe in the infirmary at the garrison. We all live, Porthos, Treville and the King.' He stroked Athos' head and placed a damp cloth against the clammy, sweating skin.

'It may not be a bad thing if we could wake him. I need him to drink the saltwater – we must replace the lost fluid.' Gently, he began to pat Athos' cheek. 'Wake up, mon ami, we need you to come back to us. Wake up!' Athos stopped thrashing and moaned and, to Aramis' horror, he saw red spreading through the sheet they had laid over his body when they had finished the last lot of stitching.

'No no,' Aramis cried as he lifted the sheet. Sure enough, one of the lesions had been torn open, and the edges of the flesh were red and tender where the stitching had pulled apart. Aramis looked at Athos and gasped as he saw green eyes looking back at him, dazed and in pain. 'Athos, can you hear me?' The swordsman looked confused and the only sound he managed was a strained moan. Once again, he tried to move his right hand, but the left lay motionless upon the bed. He flinched and cried out, as if a sudden pain had registered in his brain. Aramis ran to his side and gently felt his way along the immobile arm. The forearm felt whole and the elbow… as he lifted the arm to bend the limb Athos lurched once more. Aramis continued to hold the arm.

'It is his shoulder!' Treville shouted. 'It was not obvious because of the blood and bruising, but I think it is dislocated, or even broken.' Aramis looked aggrieved that he had not noticed earlier. Tenderly, he felt around the area Treville had indicated, as Porthos tried to hold the struggling man down.

'Yes, it is dislocated.' Aramis looked at Porthos, his expression apologetic.

'What now? Like this?' The big Musketeer looked horrified.

'Better now. The more he struggles the more pain he is in. The blood loss is making him confused. All he feels is pain, from… everywhere. This is one agony we can take away. We will hold him still, you move the arm.'

'No,' ordered Treville. 'Porthos, you hold him still, I will relocate the arm.' He knew the big man would make a better job of keeping Athos still, and he could see from the look in Porthos' eyes he did not want to bring more pain to his friend. Porthos stood behind Athos and held him in a vice-like grip, aware of the bruises and cuts that adorned his friend's body. Athos merely groaned, and a single word was all that he managed to whisper:

'Nooo.' Before he could add anything more, Treville swiftly lifted the arm and pulled it outward before letting it settle into its correct position once more. Either Athos did not have the energy to scream, or he had more command over his pain than anyone else Treville had ever met, but he did not make a sound other than a sharp hiss, his eyes screwed shut.

'I am sorry, son, but there was no other way,' Treville whispered, laying his hand on the damaged shoulder.

'S…aright...' Athos moaned. 'Thirsty…' He opened his eyes and looked into the dark ones of Aramis.

'Here just in time,' the medic grinned. 'We made this just for you.' Athos frowned, though the effort must have hurt his head, because he winced. Aramis was glad to see he was now able to lift his left hand, even if that, too, elicited a small moan. Athos took a sip of the salty water and spat it straight out. 'Oh no, mon ami, you need to drink it. It needs to replace the blood you have lost. Drink!' Despite his fragile condition, Athos managed to look stubborn.

'Drink it!' Treville ordered. Both Porthos and Aramis looked round in surprise; though the Captain had not raised his voice, the order was clear. Athos looked at the Captain, as though saddened by his demand, but he nonetheless drank the liquid Aramis held to his lips. Having downed half of the liquid, he moved his head away and gagged slightly. Aramis nodded, it had been enough for now.

'What about this?' Porthos indicated the pad he had placed over the torn wound. Aramis moaned and Treville raised his eyes to heaven. When were they going to get a little luck? Athos watched the reaction of the three men and stuttering, asked a question:

'What… is… wrong…?' The attempt left him breathless, and Aramis was aware that his friend's heart was beating rapidly – another symptom of the excessive blood loss.

'I am sorry, my friend. When you awoke, you panicked, and pulled out some of your stitches. I will need to put them back.' Athos looked pained, but nodded. When Aramis produced the remains of the brandy once more, the patient managed a small sound. 'Don't even think about it. No alcohol for you until you have drunk all of that salt water.' In reply, a quiet humph, was all Aramis heard, but it made him smile. Athos was not out of the woods yet, however. There was still the risk of infection and the head injury to worry about, but at least he had not lost his sense of humour. He poured the brandy over the wound, almost forgetting that last time he had done so, Athos had been unconscious. When the wounded man cried out, his body bucking at the stinging liquid as it bit into the tender wound, it took the medic by surprise. 'Once more, I apologise. This is not going to be pleasant.'

While Aramis tried to pull together the way-too-tender flesh, Porthos sat close to Athos and whispered in his ear, laying his arm over his chest to hold him steady. Tears trickled from the swordsman's eyes as he squeezed them shut, but he made no sound. All the while, Treville kept his hands firmly on Athos' shoulders, preventing him flinching at every agonising prick of the needle. When Aramis had finished, he swallowed heavily, his eyes watering with the intensity of the moment. Athos offered him the smallest smile, before his eyes rolled back and he went limp in Porthos' arms. All three men reached for Athos throat, but Aramis was quickest.

'It is alright. He still breathes, though why he couldn't have succumbed earlier I do not know.' His voice feigned anger, but they all knew he was just relieved Athos still lived.

'What now?' Treville asked.

'Now we wait. I doubt he will pass a comfortable night. He must have severe concussion, at best. He is in tremendous pain, which will probably get worse before it gets better, and then we have to hope he does not contract an infection, or fever. It will be a long night.' Aramis looked totally overwhelmed as he finished stating his prognosis.

The sun will be up shortly, gentlemen, the night is almost over. I will take the first watch as I will need to attend the King later in the morning. Luckily, he is not an early riser, and I will catch a few hours before he is ready. For now, the both of you WILL sleep and that is an order. Yes, Aramis, I will wake you if he needs you. Now find a bed and _SLEEP_.'

The two Musketeers literally fell onto the empty cots, and were asleep before their bodies had even had time to relax. Treville smiled at his exhausted men, before taking a chair beside Athos' bed.

He wiped the man's face with a cloth. His skin was not warm, but it still had an unhealthy pallor and felt clammy to his fingers. 'Come on, son, rest now. But make sure you come back to us when you are ready – and let that be soon.' He ran his hand through his hair and contemplated the young man before him. In a matter of weeks, Athos had burst into their presence, albeit reluctantly, and since then he and somehow managed to become an integral part of their lives. However, he still worried that Athos attracted trouble, even if it were not of his own making. More worrying still, was how he reacted to that threat; he was a man who appeared to relish the idea of death almost as much as he refused to give in to it. What demons the boy fought to make him so unpredictable Treville could not guess, but Aramis had assured him there had been no sign of self-destruction during their mission and, for now, he had to believe him.

Still, he had not missed how Porthos and Aramis fussed and handled him like a delicate piece of china, or how he himself had reacted when he had realised Athos still lived; something about this man got under your skin, despite his own efforts to avoid such an occurrence. More interesting still, Treville had been totally aware of Athos shouting the orders as he burst into the ballroom, and both Aramis and Porthos reacting immediately, without question. The three of them showed great promise. As a trio, they were a force to be reckoned with, though at what cost to Treville's sanity he dreaded to think. He allowed himself a smile as he gazed at his three heroes, though how he was going to convince the King, he did not know. His reverie was broken as Athos' eyes flew open. He looked rather green and the desperation in his eyes had Treville grabbing for the bucket which stood upon the floor. As the patient leant over the edge of the bed and retched, Treville held him gently and rubbed his back. Yes, what was left of the night would be long indeed.


	30. Chapter 30

Chapter 30

Dawn was creeping over the garrison roof, and it had indeed been a long night. Porthos, relieving the Captain in the early hours, had watched as Athos became quieter and quieter. The nausea had abated a little while ago, and since then he had lain very still. His oh so pale cheeks were becoming over-heated, an angry flush covering his face, and beads of sweat ran in rivulets into his already wet hair, damp tendrils adhering to his skin.

In a bid to bring down the fever, Porthos had placed cold cloths onto Athos' head and torso– but to no avail. Some of the wounds were showing angry and red around the edges and, even with his limited medical knowledge, Porthos knew this was not a good sign. Finally, he realised he would have to wake Aramis. He had already put off disturbing his friend for as long as possible, and he knew that Aramis would not thank him for it. The medic's behaviour the night before had worried him; normally, when in the infirmary, Aramis was precise and decisive, never hesitant as he had been with Athos. Porthos hoped it was simply the shock of the bomb blast – after all, it had been loud and fierce enough to terrify most of Paris, and they had not been as close to the blast as Aramis had been. He would wake him but determined to watch the man very closely. Placing fresh cloths on Athos, he slipped over to the sleeping medic, gently shaking his shoulder.

'Aramis, wake up, I think Athos needs you.' The words acted like a bucket of iced water. The Musketeer instantly awoke though, despite rubbing a hand over his face, his eyes still appeared unfocussed. 'Are you alright? I left it for a while, I thought he was restin', but 'e's gettin' hot.' This spurred Aramis forward and he swung his legs off the bed.

'How long as he been like this?' the medic asked, feeling Athos' red-hot forehead. Slight shivers ran down the inert, burning body, as the fever did its work. Porthos gave the question some thought.

'He threw up several times whilst Treville watched him. He didn't keep much of anything down for long, not the saline nor the pain remedy. When I took over, he seemed to settle and I thought that was a good sign, but he's too quiet, and 'e's bin slowly gettin' hotter and hotter. Even I can see some o' them cuts look nasty.' When he spoke again, Aramis sounded more resolute.

'We need to try and wake him, he needs to take some liquid.' He groaned and wiped his hair away from his face, still looking tired. 'Retching has torn some of these stitches loose; luckily most of them still hold so re-stitching is not necessary – yet.'

'Won't he just throw up if we make him drink?' Porthos queried, wiping the damp hair from Athos' forehead. Aramis shook his head.

'It is a risk, but he has lost too much blood, and with the nausea his body will be in need of fluids.' Porthos nodded his understanding. 'I do not want to re-open these wounds, but if they prove to be infected, we will have no choice.' Aramis looked disturbed by the very idea, but if it had to be done, then he would do it. Leaning over the prostrate form he whispered in his ear.

'Come on Athos, we need you awake. Come on wake up.' He patted his cheeks gently, but there was no response. 'I am sorry, dear friend, this might hurt.' He made a fist and pressed his knuckles into Athos' sternum. 'Come on Athos you must feel that, come on.' No response. Aramis looked worried.

'What's wrong? And don't say nuthin',' Porthos demanded. Aramis shook his head and tried once more. Still Athos remained still and silent.

'He should feel that, he should be responding,' Aramis said, more to himself than in answer to Porthos' question.

'Why isn't he?' Porthos tried again.

'I don't know. It could be that the head injury is worse than we suspected, though falling from that height it was always a possibility. If so, it is possible his brain has sustained damage.'

'But he spoke to us last night. He woke up, he was sick.' Porthos' voice held a level of desperation. Aramis brightened for a moment, before falling silent once more.

'I have read cases where people have sustained a head injury and been rendered unconscious, then awoken, with little more than a mild headache and no memory of the accident. They have locked up the house, blown out the candles and tidied up, before succumbing to exhaustion and falling asleep – never to awaken again.' He sat quietly at Athos' side, his hand resting on the man's head, as if trying to sense what damage lay within. Porthos turned from the bed and paced up and down.

'There must be somethin' we can do?' At that moment the door opened, and a bright shaft of sunlight fell across the bed, cold air blew into the room and the two Musketeers looked up to see who had entered. Both men smiled to see their Captain, but even the sight of the breakfast he was carrying was not enough to keep the worry from Porthos' face. Treville noticed their crestfallen countenance and frowned.

'What is wrong?' He looked at Athos and his expression changed, puzzlement replaced by fear. 'He seemed to have settled when I left.' He felt the young man's cheek and shook his head. 'Fever, damn it!' Like Porthos, he, too, paced up and down, attempting to calm his irritation, before eventually returning to Aramis' side.

'What do you need?' The medic looked lost for a moment.

'I do not know. I think this is beyond my knowledge. I cannot wake him. If I cannot get him to take in fluid…' He did not need to finish the sentence, Treville had seen enough battle-wounded to know that severe loss of blood and fluids could kill.

'He's shiverin',' Porthos stated, hopefully. 'That's good ain't it?' The Captain and Aramis turned to look at the feverish shape upon the bed. Small shudders ran through Athos' body, as though he were freezing cold.

'I don't know, it could just be the body's reaction to the fever,' Aramis muttered, lifting the sheet over his friend's still form.

'But if his brain is damaged, surely he wouldn't feel anythin'?' Porthos persisted. Aramis began showing signs of impatience, holding his head in both hands.

'I don't know. Do you think if I knew how to help him, I would not be doing so right now? I don't know how to treat this. I am a soldier, not a doctor.' With that, he turned and stalked from the room, slamming the door behind him. Treville and Porthos looked at each other. The Captain indicated the still vibrating door frame.

'Go after him, make him eat something, I will sit with Athos. I think it is best we send for a doctor. I will see to it when I leave for the palace.' Porthos nodded and left the infirmary in search of Aramis.

Treville pulled up a chair and sat beside the bed. He took the warm cloth from Athos' forehead and dipped it in the bowl of cool water, replacing it gently.

'How often are we going to do this Athos? I have known you for little more than a month, and this is already the second time I have sat by your side and tended your injuries. Is it coincidence, or is there more to it? I am not sure if you deliberately put yourself in danger, or whether you simply place everyone else's welfare, above your own. If you are going to be a Musketeer – and you will be – you are going to have to learn some self-worth. I will not sit by and watch you throw yourself under every runaway carriage, in front of every bullet – or exploding bomb.' He sat quietly for a moment, watching to see if there was any response. When Athos remained still, he placed his hand upon the man's chest, just to reassure himself he did indeed still breathe. Sighing, he stood slowly – he felt he was aging with every passing moment. He had already kept the King waiting and that would not end well, and in addition he needed to find a doctor – a good one.

Porthos found Aramis sitting on their bench, his head resting in his hands. The cadets and Musketeers had sensed the man's mood and continued to spar, carrying out their tasks without interfering. Porthos eased himself down alongside his friend. Aramis did not react.

'I'm sorry, I never meant to suggest you should be doin' more. You looked after 'im well.' The silent Musketeer slowly lifted his head and sighed.

'But it was not enough. The wounds are infected and the head injury… well it is beyond my understanding.' He looked at his friend, his dark eyes filled with pain. 'I'm scared Porthos.' The big Musketeer pulled Aramis closer, their heads touching, affording one another some much needed comfort.

'I know, so am I. It don't seem the same without him giving me that superior look when I pinch his bread, or rolling his eyes when we tease him. But I swear, when he is well, me and 'im are going to have a long chat about his stupid ideas. I'm through with lugging his bleeding body back through that archway. It's not happenin' again!' He tried to sound angry but the break in his voice gave away the fierce emotion he was fighting to control.

'Right now, I would give anything for one of his withering stares, just to see him open his eyes. What if he doesn't wake?' Aramis beseeched the big man. Porthos scowled.

'He will.' His voice held a rigid determination, as though he could wake the sleeping man with his will alone.

'And if he doesn't?' Aramis asked, his voice not much more than a whisper.

'Then we carry on, like we always have. We will be alright.' The two men looked at each other, as though searching for the confirmation each needed to see in the other's eyes. Aramis nodded and gave a weak smile. Somehow, they both knew that if they became a pair once more, without their third, things would never be the same.

Treville appeared in the infirmary doorway. 'Aramis, Porthos!' The two men ran across the courtyard fearing the worst. 'I am sorry, I did not mean to alarm you. There has been no change, but I must leave for the palace. The King will want to discuss the events of yesterday. Just do your best Aramis, that is all Athos would expect. I will send a doctor as soon as I can.' Relieved, they both nodded, then turned and entered the quiet and gloom of the infirmary once more.

Treville rode to the palace deep in thought. On occasion, the King had been happy to send his own personal physician to aid an injured Musketeer, if their own could not help. After all, they were his personal regiment and it amused him to think he could render assistance when it was needed. As he rode closer to the palace, he let out a long breath. Now, in the bright light of day, the damage that had been done to the palace was clear. A large hole gaped in the outer wall where the window had once been. Already, workmen were putting up posts to enable them to begin repairs. Louis would not let the palace appear damaged for longer than necessary, as it would send out all the wrong signals. A King must be seen to be omnipotent in whatever edifice he chose to reside.

Walking along the sumptuous corridors, Treville felt an air of fear still lurking in the shadows, and around every corner. Fearing they knew not what, servants who passed him refused to make eye contact, choosing to study the floor, or glance furtively in all directions. He noticed a group of Red Guards heading toward him in the opposite direction and, as they came closer, he realised Flambeaux, their Captain, was amongst them. Treville nodded in recognition of the other man's position, but Flambeaux merely snorted and gave a cocky sneer, walking straight on past, refusing to acknowledge the Musketeer Captain. Treville stiffened, it was possible the Guard was simply fuming from their previous encounter; he hoped that was all, and that he was not aware of something Treville was not.

Reaching the doors to the throne room, he exchanged a brief word with the two Musketeers on duty. They were not aware of any further developments, though they confirmed Louis had asked for their Captain several times. Sighing, he opened the double doors and confronted his fate.

'Treville, where have you been? We have been waiting for you for hours.' Treville doubted that very much, as it was only mid-morning, and Louis was not an early riser.

'Forgive me, Sire, I thought to give you time to take your rest, especially after the tragic events of last night.' Louis looked puzzled for a moment.

'I am not sure _tragic_ is the right word. I would say _catastrophic_. Do you realise how long I had been planning that party?' Treville was used to the King's selfish outbursts by now, but he was still stunned by his egocentric priorities. Before he could offer a response, the King continued: 'My brother is missing. We must send out my Musketeers and look for him directly. And I want Athos back in the Châtelet.' He looked petulant and Treville could offer no immediate response, his heart hammering in his ribs as he fought for the appropriate reply.

Trying to gauge the best way to deal with the King's latest mood, he glanced at the Cardinal who, as always, was standing behind the King's shoulder, like a harbinger of doom. Though his face did not show any obvious sign, it was obvious that he was enjoying Treville's dilemma; there was a hint of satisfaction in his expression that made the Musketeer Captain clench his fists.

'May I ask what Athos has done to deserve such punishment?' Louis stood and placed his hands upon his hips.

'Indeed, you may, Treville. He struck my brother. Yes, I have witnesses who saw it for themselves. Athos tried to drag him back into the ballroom, presumably because he wanted him to be present, along with my dear wife and I, when the explosion took place. And when he refused, Athos struck him, knocking him unconscious. Where he is now nobody knows.' The King's sullen expression remained as he waited for the Captain to respond.

'Your Highness, at this moment Athos lies in our infirmary. He has many wounds, including a severe blow to the head, and is running a high fever. It would be totally inappropriate to place a man with such severe injuries in jail. I would also ask you to consider, Sire, how he sustained those injuries. In fact, he threw himself out of a three-storey window in order to protect Your Highness. He risked his life for his King.' Louis tapped his foot and sat back down.

'That is your view of events Treville, and we expected you to be biased, did we not Cardinal?' Richelieu spoke for the first time.

'Indeed, we did, Sire.' This time the sick grin was back in place. Typically, he had come out of the debacle unscathed, a slight scratch on his cheek being all he had to show for the horrific events. 'Treville, do you have any idea what happened?' asked Louis. 'How was it that Athos knew there was a bomb in the cake, and you did not?' Treville shook his head slowly.

'I do not know, Sire, and until Athos awakes, it is unlikely I will discover any more details. Aramis and Porthos were simply following Athos' lead. They tell me he was leaving the palace as you instructed, when he suddenly turned on his heel and began running back toward the ballroom. The only thing he said was _cake_. As for the Duke, it is possible Athos thought he was leaving to avoid being present when the bomb exploded, suggesting he believed your brother was involved somehow.' The King considered the Captain's words more thoroughly than Treville had hoped for. Tapping the arm of his throne, he spoke over his shoulder to the hovering First Minister.

'What do you think Cardinal? Could my brother have been involved?' Richelieu shifted slightly, the only sign that he was considering his response carefully.

'It is not something we can rule out, Your Majesty, given his treatment of you in the past, and the fact he has disappeared does not help his cause if he is innocent.' He looked to Treville as though his admission of Gaston's possible betrayal was a favour, he had bestowed on the Musketeer Captain. 'Perhaps Athos and your brother were working together.' This time it was Treville's turn to snort. His voice was full of scorn when he accorded the Cardinal a scathing retort.

'The man whom I employed to be my sword master, and who could not possibly have known he would be sent to escort the Duke to Paris? The man who stood before _you_ last night whilst Gaston publicly denounced him, and his treatment on the journey from Orleans? Is it likely they were in it together? Just why exactly are you so determined to place the blame at Athos' door? I will not stand by and let him be held responsible, when we knowingly invited into the Louvre a man who has shown no love for France or its King, and who has since disappeared, thereby practically admitting his culpability.' The Captain had delivered his speech with passion, and Louis was smiling with amusement. He loved nothing more than a drama, and Treville had often believed the Monarch enjoyed playing his Captain off against his First Minister.

'Well, Treville, I concede that my brother is at best annoying, and at worst an enemy of France, which is why it is imperative that we find him.' He would not back down on this, and Treville nodded his agreement. Gaston did indeed need to be found – the Captain did not like the idea of the sly Duke skulking in the shadows of Paris forming yet another treasonous plot.

'Indeed, Sire, I will have my men out searching upon my return to the garrison. But before I take my leave, may I make one request?' Louis looked interested, and waved a hand indicating that the Captain may continue.

'Would Your Majesty send his physician to the garrison? It would be most helpful if Athos could awake, as perhaps he has information which would aid our search.' Louis looked thoughtful, and may have agreed, but the Cardinal was not so generous.

'You can hardly expect the King to send his physician to help a man who may yet prove to be a criminal. He suffered a great shock last night as did Her Majesty the Queen. The physician needs to be on hand at all times, in case there should be any signs of a relapse or hidden reaction from the trauma.' Louis looked alarmed at Richelieu's suggestion.

'You are right, Cardinal. In fact, I feel a headache coming on as we speak. Send for my doctor and tell him to attend me straight away. We will discuss your progress this afternoon Treville.' The King walked from the room, holding his head as though he thought it might fall off.

When the two men were alone in the room, Treville rounded on the Cardinal. 'What are you up to? You have no love for Gaston, so why are you not pushing for his capture? Why are you so hung up on blaming Athos?' Richelieu brushed at a non-existent piece of lint on his black robes, before narrowing his eyes and answering the question.

'I do not know what you mean. I have no agenda, Treville. I think Gaston is a sneak and a threat to the security of France, but it does not do to make the King think it is his own fault. After all, it was _his_ idea to invite Gaston in the first place. You really do need to learn a little diplomacy… but then you are only a soldier. Perhaps it would be better if you left and did some soldiering. Leave the politics to me.'

'You mean the scheming,' retorted the Captain. 'You are right, I do not play your type of games. I _am_ a soldier. But it is the job of myself and my Musketeers to protect the King, and if you and your schemes do anything to jeopardize that, you will be sorry.' He did not wait for a response but turned and stalked from the throne room. On his way out, he almost collided with Rochefort– another smug bastard he would like to punch. Cracking his knuckles, he strode past the young man and headed down the corridor.

Running down the stairs, deep in thought, he did not see the young woman approaching, her face and upper body hidden behind two large bolts of cloth. The collision was inevitable, and she stumbled, but luckily, she had not begun to ascend the stairs, or her fall could have been worse.

'What is it with men and stairs?' she mumbled to herself, as she recalled her encounter with Athos the previous day.

'Madam Bonacieux, my humble apologies, I am afraid I was thinking of other things.' She raised her eyebrows but smiled, accepting his apology, as he helped her to her feet and collected her scattered belongings.

'Well do not do it again, Captain. You and your men seem to make a habit of knocking me over.' Looking serious she touched the man's arm.

'Was anyone injured last night? The explosion; it was heard across the city.'

Treville shook his head. 'One fatality, a baker, otherwise only minor cuts and bruises.' She smiled.

'I am glad, by the size of the hole, it could have been much worse. And after all the trouble I took for Monsieur Athos, I hope he did not spoil my husband's coat.' The look on Treville's face said it all. 'Was he hurt?' she asked, becoming concerned. The Captain nodded sadly.

'I was not aware you had met.' The young woman chuckled.

'It is a long story. He needed clothing for whatever mission you had set him. Said he needed to mingle. Took me quite a while to bring him up to scratch. Is he badly hurt?' Treville nodded.

'I am afraid so. He… fell from a window. He has a severe head injury and we cannot rouse him. The wounds he sustained are infected and he is battling a fever. I had hoped for the King's physician, but he is… _not available_.' The woman looked horrified.

'He was such a polite man, such lovely manners. What about Lemay? He is a young doctor who aids the King's physician. He is very good, in fact probably better. His ideas are more up to date. He has a house on the Rue Biot, I am sure he will help.' Treville beamed at the young woman and kissed her hand.

'Thank you, Madame, a wonderful suggestion. I will go at once.' She smiled as the Captain hurried from the building.

'Musketeers! If they aren't knocking you to the ground, they are kissing your hand.' Her brow furrowed as she ascended the stairs. She did hope Athos would recover… it would be such a waste.

As Athos' temperature rose, Aramis and Porthos continued to place cold cloths on his fiery body. The fact that he did not react to the inferno raging inside him terrified the medic; he would rather have dealt with thrashing and moaning than this unnerving silence. The door had been left open, so that the cold air might bring some comfort to Athos' burning skin, whilst the two men sat in the freezing cold, hardly noticing the temperature. Twice, Aramis had attempted to revive the sick man by rubbing his knuckles against the sternum, hoping the pain would rouse him from his coma. But there was nothing, no response, just stillness. Long, dark lashes fanned too hot cheeks, and still there was no acknowledgement that he felt any discomfort. Athos never made much fuss when he was injured, not one for screaming or giving voice to his pain, but this… this was unnatural. Neither of the two Musketeers had said much of anything to each other. Each had retreated into his own thoughts, dealing with his fear in his own way. Aramis tidied his tools and herbs repeatedly, as though it might provide him with some yet undiscovered answer, whilst Porthos scowled and paced up and down every now and again, when the silence became too much to bear.

They were both relieved when a shadow fell across the floor, indicating a figure standing in the doorway.

'Captain!' Aramis shouted, his voice sounding overly loud in the stillness of the infirmary, but even then, Athos failed to stir. 'Have you bought the physician?' He looked at the young man behind Treville and frowned. He had not met the King's doctor very often, but he knew the man was in his fifties, not a young man little older than himself.

'This is Doctor Lemay, he is the doctor's assistant.' The young man bowed, looking slightly nervous, having been almost dragged from his house by the insistent Musketeer Captain. The description of Athos' condition that the man had given him had not been very positive and now, seeing the desperation upon the faces of the two men in front of him, he was somewhat overwhelmed. Nevertheless, he moved forward and held out his hand to Aramis. The medic acknowledged the gesture and gave the doctor a small bow. Looking at Porthos, the doctor lost his nerve and simply bowed his head, the big man acknowledging the gesture with a thin smile. Not a reassuring expression.

'May I examine the patient?' Lemay asked, sounding slightly more assertive.

'His name is Athos,' Porthos growled. Lemay eyed the giant and stuttered his response. 'Of course, Athos. May I examine Athos?' Porthos moved to one side, indicating that the doctor should take his place. Lemay stood beside Athos and began a cursory examination. 'What happened?' Aramis answered:

'He pushed an explosive device out of a three-storey window last night. When we found him on the ground below, he was unconscious. He was bleeding heavily from a head wound, and there were numerous shards of glass sticking out of his torso, arms and legs.' He swallowed heavily as he remembered his reaction to finding Athos' body, feeling certain he was dead. 'His pulse was faint, and his breathing was rapid. When we arrived at the garrison, we immediately dealt with the head wound, cleaning it with brandy and stitching it as best we could. It was deep and long, and it was difficult to hold the skin together.'

'Too much bloody hair,' Porthos growled. Lemay gave him an uncertain look, but he noted Aramis' smile and guessed it was well-meant.

'One-by-one we removed the pieces of glass, then cleaned and stitched the lacerations. We had just finished when he began to awake. He was disorientated and in pain, he thrashed around and reopened one of the largest wounds. That was when we noticed he could not move his left arm. His shoulder had been dislocated, but with everything else we had missed it.' The guilt was evident in his voice.

'It is not always as obvious as some people think,' he reassured Aramis, and Porthos notched the comment up in the doctor's favour.

'The Captain relocated the shoulder.' Aramis continued. 'Athos was awake the whole time. Indeed, he stayed conscious whilst I re-stitched the wound and, before he eventually passed out, he managed to drink a thin saline solution to help with the blood loss.' As Aramis fell quiet, dwelling once more upon the events of the previous night, Porthos took up the account.

'I sat with him, and he threw up three times. Every time I managed to get 'im to drink the salt water or pain remedy, he would bring it back up a short time later. Then he went quiet, and his skin got hotter and hotter. He has not awoken since – not a moan or anythin'.' He looked at the doctor as though expecting some sort of reassurance. But Lemay simply bit his lip and continued with his examination.

'I tried pressing on his sternum, doctor,' added Aramis. 'Four times I have tried, but he has not acknowledged the pain in any way.' Lemay nodded.

'Can you sit him up so I can examine the head wound.' Gently Treville and Aramis leant Athos forward, Porthos allowing Athos' forehead to rest upon his shoulder as he held him carefully, feeling the heat from the swordsman's fever through his jacket. 'Nasty!' They could all clearly see the horrific bruises on the back of his shoulders, continuing onto his lower torso, so plainly outlined on the pale skin. 'You say he fell from a window? I am assuming that is the same window that is now just a gaping hole in the wall of the Louvre?' He did not wait for the men to reply. Pressing gently on the bruises, he moved up into Athos' hair to the neat stitches in the head wound. 'You did a marvellous job with these. You are correct, sewing a head injury is extremely difficult.' Smiling at Porthos, he added: 'Indeed, he does have a lot of hair. Hopefully he will not notice the loss.' Porthos grinned, he was beginning to like this doctor. Lemay continued: 'It appears he must have impacted with something on the way down, this severity of bruising is not likely to have been caused from the body hitting the ground.'

'There are carved figures… were stone figures, abutting the stonework on that wall. We thought he must have hit more than one on the way down, perhaps that is also how he received his head injury.' Lemay nodded and smiled at Aramis.

'Indeed, it is possible, but you have cared for it well, and there is no sign of infection in this wound, though it will need to be kept dry and regularly checked to see if infection becomes apparent. You may lay him down.' It did not go unnoticed by the doctor that Athos made no sound as he was shifted upon the bed; his pulse and heartbeat were rapid, and his breathing still shallow. 'These wounds are infected. I fear we will have to reopen some of them and wash them out. It is also possible there is some small matter inside the wounds which will need to be removed. It would be best to do it whilst he is still asleep, but at the same time I am still concerned that he has not awoken. Perhaps it would be best to try and get him to make some response before we begin work on these.' The three men eyed him warily, anxious as to what his next move might be.

'You say you have tried putting pressure on his sternum, how long did you rub the bone for?' Aramis thought for a moment.

'A few seconds, but there was no response.' Lemay looked pleased.

'That is good. If you had said much longer, I would have been more concerned. There is a current opinion that suggests continuing to rub for a much longer period, up to a slow count of thirty, is more effective.' At this, he made a fist of his hand and began to apply pressure. Aramis felt ashamed as he noticed the faint bruising from his own earlier efforts showing beneath the doctor's fingers; that he had caused more injury appalled him. No reaction, and all four men held their breath. Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen… Aramis counted, twenty-five, twenty-six… Suddenly Athos' eyes flickered, and he screwed up his face in pain, a small moan escaping his dry lips.

'Yes, Athos, wake up, that's it,' the doctor encouraged. Aramis, Porthos and Treville let out a collective breath, and Aramis almost sobbed in relief.

'Athos, can you hear me? It is Aramis. The doctor is here, his name is Lemay. He will not hurt you, he is here to help, mon ami.' Athos tried to open his eyes, but he was still far away, and the pull of sleep and oblivion was too strong. But when a commanding voice called to him, it began to jolt him from the safety of slumber and back into the world of pain.

'Come on, son, wake up! We need you awake! That is an order!' Treville's tone sounded harsh, and both of the Musketeers looked up in surprise, but when Athos began to respond to the Captain's voice, they understood his intention.

'Sit him up,' Lemay instructed. Handing a vial to Aramis, he added, 'Mix this with three parts water. It will make enough for several draughts. I will give him one now.' Athos leant against the Captain and tried to focus on the strange face in front of him. The concussion still had hold of his vision, and he could not see clearly, and his head pounded, making waves of nausea envelope him when he tried to move it. His eyes wanted to close, they were more comfortable shut, but the Captain wanted him to awake. He gave a small moan and attempted to lift his hand to his head, eliciting a further whimper as his hand impacted with the wound.

'Stop!' the doctor urged. 'You have injured your head in the fall, but Aramis has looked after you well and it is healing nicely. However, I am afraid some of your other injuries are not so good. We will have to open them up and clean them out. I am sorry.' Athos eyes were shiny, with an unnatural gleam due to the fever. He shivered in the cold chill of the infirmary and Lemay glanced around him.

'Get him a blanket, he will feel the cold whilst he is conscious, and shivering will not help the wounds that do not need to be re-opened.' Athos suddenly became agitated and, as Aramis leant to place the blanket around his shoulders, he grabbed at the medic's shirt.

'The King….' It was all he could manage.

'Thanks to you, the King is uninjured, as is the Queen,' Treville reassured him. This seemed to calm Athos, but still he held on to Aramis. He pulled the medic closer, so only he could hear what Athos was saying.

'I thought … thought I was dead… _she_ was there… heard her...' His voice was filled with anguish and, as his eyes flickered closed, Aramis gently tapped his cheeks. Not wanting this discussion in front of the others, he took the cup Lemay was holding and bought it to Athos' lips.

'Drink this, then you can rest.' Athos screwed up his nose but, when he sipped the fragrant liquid, he gave the slightest twitch of his lips.

'Better than… yours…' He pushed it away, and Aramis feigned offence.

'After all the effort I took, no appreciation at all.' A slight huff was all the response Athos gave. He seemed to be asleep once more, and they all looked at the doctor, awaiting his opinion.

'He does not appear to have taken any serious brain damage from the injury to his head, but it is time we took care of the infection. I will need to wash my hands.'

Aramis directed him to a bowl which he filled with hot water. When Lemay was ready, Aramis began cutting the stitches from the wounds, one at a time. The largest was the worst, already yellow puss formed at the edges and just inside the wound. The doctor cut and scraped it away and that was when they realised Athos was still awake. His body went rigid, and he attempted to pull away from the knife. All hands came into play, holding him down so he could not do himself even more damage. Porthos leant over him and pressed on his shoulders whilst talking quietly into his ear, and Treville held his legs, nevertheless acutely aware that he _should_ be dealing with the missing Gaston. Though he had sent men to gather information, the King would be expecting an update, and he doubted he would be pleased with the results.

I need more light,' Lemay demanded. 'I believe there is fabric inside the wound forced in by the glass.' Aramis held the candle as close as he dared, whilst Lemay opened the wound and poked the tweezers inside. Athos hissed, and attempted to thrash against the excruciating pain. Lemay kept up his search, finally letting out a long sigh of relief as he pulled a small slither of velvet from the wound. Aramis poured more brandy over the cavity and, when they were satisfied it was clean, they began the delicate operation of stitching the inflamed and swollen flesh back together. 'I am afraid this one will scar, but most of the others will fade in time,' said Lemay.

'Never mind,' Aramis encouraged. 'I have found women love the story of a good scar!' He grinned at the doctor's expression and laughed when Lemay finally began to smile. As they reopened the next wound Athos gave one final attempt to push them away, then lay still. Lemay felt his pulse and gave them a reassuring smile.

'He is fine.' When Porthos and Aramis began to laugh, Treville rolling his eyes, Lemay was at a loss to understand what he had said to elicit such a reaction. They were indeed a strange breed these Musketeers, though their affection for Athos was in no doubt.

One-by-one, they continued to reopen the wounds, removing small slivers of glass and odd threads. When the lacerations were all clean and re-sown, they placed the blanket over Athos and left the man to rest.

'That is all I can do,' said Lemay. 'I will leave more of the pain relief, and when he wakes give him more saline. If he rejects it, give him a spoon of honey to take away the taste. I will come back this evening to check on his progress. If he gets worse do not hesitate to fetch me.

'The next twenty-four hours will be crucial, and I fear this fever will get worse before it gets better.'


	31. Chapter 31

**Chapter 31**

 _Athos had tried so hard to stay awake as Treville had ordered, but the pain had been too great. He wanted to apologise for being weak, for not fulfilling an order, for not being good enough to be a Musketeer. Keep him in the garrison, that was what the King thought of him, and he was right. How could he ever have harboured illusions of being a Musketeer, an elite soldier? He hadn't even been able to protect his own brother. As his muddled mind wandered through the murky paths of the past, her face swam in front of his, smiling, though her eyes were glistening with tears. Was she angry? No, she was sad, stroking his cheek. Why was she so sad? What had he done? Then her lips, soft and warm – she was saying goodbye._

He was so tired, so damn tired of it all. Perhaps at last he could seek the rest he so desperately wanted – peace, an end to the torment. No more phantoms in the night, no more feeling at all. A sudden calm washed over him, and he was only aware of floating; no pain, no faces – no anything.

'Aramis!' Porthos shouted. Aramis turned and saw his friend holding Athos by the shoulders, shaking him.

'What are you doing? What is wrong?' The medic rushed to Athos' side and pushed the big Musketeer away. Porthos was trembling, and his face was ashen.

'He wasn't breathing, I'm sure he wasn't.' His voice held a tinge of hysteria, and Aramis glanced at him with concern. He reached for Athos' neck and felt for a pulse and, at first, he feared Porthos was right. He moved his fingers, trying not to panic, hoping he was simply feeling in the wrong place. Then he felt it, thud, thud, faint but present, and he breathed out in relief.

'I'm sorry, I thought 'e wasn't breathin', I… I thought 'e was gone.' Porthos looked so desolate that Aramis began to doubt his own assessment. He felt Athos' neck once more to reassure them both.

'He breathes, but it is very faint. He is so hot it is scaring me. We need to cool him down and fast.' As his fingers pressed into Athos' neck, he felt the heartbeat begin to increase. Faster and faster, it pumped, his chest rising and falling, as though he were fighting a battle – which of course he was.

'His breathing is far too erratic, said Aramis. 'His body is fighting to stay in control, but I fear it is losing the battle.' He looked at Porthos, fear evident in his eyes. 'Dampen him down, I will open the door, the draught of cold air may work. If not, we will have to seek out Dr Lemay's help once more.'

 _Athos was angry. He had been content, the dark and the quiet had been within his grasp, now the pain was back and the hammering inside his head would not cease. Why wouldn't they just let him go?_

Treville had met briefly with the teams of Musketeers he had sent out into the streets of Paris to garner information and was now retracing his route of this morning back to the Louvre, in order to update the King. He did not have much to report and hoped to find His Majesty in a good frame of mind.

Fortunately, events helped to keep his own mood positive – he did not pass any Red Guards on his way, nor did he run into Rochefort – but how long his positivity was likely to last, he did not know.

Meanwhile, the Cardinal had recalled Milady to the Louvre – she had failed him, and he was not pleased. As she entered the room, via one of the many passages known only to the First Minister, he barked out his question:

'What have you discovered?' She did not play with him, she knew that answering swiftly was her only chance of avoiding his wrath. Though he appeared calm and in control, she was aware of the anger that simmered near the surface. He was a dangerous man, and she would do well to always keep that in mind.

'I am fairly sure that Gaston has left the city. Two men, one of whom answered to his description, were seen heading out of Paris soon after the explosion. There is no information as to who the second man might be, but it was not D'Coucy's errant son; after settling all his gambling debts, he was seen boarding a ship for England two days ago. I have asked many questions and the only man that no one can recall seeing again after the party is the one who offered to assist the King in lighting the candles. He handed the taper to His Majesty and has not been seen since. His body was not found in the ballroom. Nobody recognised him, though one of the footmen said he had been seen hovering around the cake and talking with the baker earlier in the day.' She waited, holding her breath. She had worked hard and long to find out as much as she had, calling in favours and paying out extreme amounts of money, in order to placate the Cardinal's wrath.

He steepled his fingertips together and pursed his lips, a sure sign that he was considering the information.

'You have done well in a short time. So, Gaston has left Paris? I want him found. Not touched, I just want to know where the weasel is.'

'You believe he was behind it?' she enquired, his reaction restoring some of her confidence.

'I never doubted it for a moment. He couldn't wait to leave the room. I'm not even sure he did not provoke his argument with the King to give himself a genuine excuse for his departure. I would have liked to have seen the idiot's face when Athos attempted to drag him back into the ballroom!' For a moment he grinned in appreciation of a scene he would dearly have enjoyed.

'I thought you did not like Athos?' she queried. The Cardinal narrowed his eyes and she hoped she had not gone too far with her questions.

'I do not like any of the Musketeers, they are fiercely loyal to Treville, and that makes them dangerous. Athos is an unknown factor, but in a short while he has made an impact, which interests me. He was the only one to work out where the danger was coming from. He was not in the least intimidated by Gaston's derision, and he walked amongst the guests as if he were used to such affairs. He interests me. And your interest in him interests me also.' She tried to look surprised, which to an extent she was.

'I have no interest in the man, apart from a sense of curiosity.' She tried to assume an air of nonchalance, approaching on boredom, but Richelieu was not convinced. He was the king of misinformation and bluffing, and he recognised another schemer, and an accomplished liar when he met one, and Milady was both of those things. Why she was so interested in this man, Athos, he did not know. It could of course be pure attraction, as he appreciated the man was not without his merits, but he sensed it was more than that, and like a shark sensing blood in the water, he wanted more. In fact, he intended to find out exactly who this swordsman was, and why his best assassin found him so fascinating.

'Find Gaston, have him watched and keep me informed. I must attend the King, let us see if Treville has discovered what you have told me.' His smug expression suggested he hoped not. Dismissing her, he glanced out of the building and spied the Musketeer Captain riding into the grounds. He could not help but smile as he considered the meeting between the King and his Captain. Milady chose not to loiter, she had much to do.

As Treville pushed open the large doors to the throne room, he was still considering the information he had learned from his Musketeers. He searched the King's face for clues to his mood and was relieved to find Louis beaming from ear to ear.

'Treville, what excellent timing. Have you seen the workmen, aren't they doing a wonderful job? They tell me that, in a matter of days, the hole will be no more!' The Musketeer Captain decided to play along, not wanting to dampen the monarch's mood.

'That is indeed impressive, Your Majesty. It will be marvellous to see the palace restored.' Louis grinned, happy with his Captain's response, but then his face grew serious.

'What news have you of my brother?' He sat forward in his seat and gave Treville his sole attention. Hovering to one side as always, Richelieu looked on in interest as the Captain began to speak.

'I have had men scouring the city for most of the day. All the information we have gathered suggests the Duke has left Paris. Though he took the main road that would lead him to Orleans, I doubt that is where he is headed – it would be far too obvious. I have sent men along the route to see if they can find a trail, and I hope to hear back from them before nightfall tomorrow. However, it appears he was not alone. There was another rider but, so far, he remains unidentified.

'My men visited the baker's shop – the man was killed in the blast as Your Majesty is aware. His premises were empty and showed no sign of foul play. Upon further investigation they discovered his wife had not been seen for many weeks, the baker had told them neighbours that she had left suddenly to attend an ill relative. They did think that he had been unusually worried and not his usual self lately, but they put it down to the pressure of making the Queen's birthday cake and did not pry. My men asked one of the neighbours to look the house over, in particular the bedroom, and she thought it odd that certain items that she would have expected the wife to have taken had she left Paris, were still present. It is my opinion that the wife was likely held captive, to ensure the baker made the cake to specific instructions. Most likely she is already dead – in fact, she was probably dead from the beginning. They would not have wanted to leave any loose ends. Louis was riveted, he loved a good story – but Treville had been watching the Cardinal's reaction. It seemed that it had not been news to him that Gaston was no longer in the city, but apparently he had not known about the baker.

'Well done, Captain, you have discovered much already. Your man, Athos, has he spoken yet?' Treville realised the question was a double-edged sword, and that his answer was crucial.

'He has been attended by a physician, due to his infected wounds and subsequent high fever. He awoke briefly, but his only words were to ask after Your Majesty's well-being.' Louis was pleased with the answer, and Treville let out the breath he hadn't been aware he was holding.

'I am gratified by his concern, especially in his state of health. Perhaps we have judged him too harshly, Cardinal?' The First Minister took a step forward and, though he spoke to the King, his eyes were on the Captain.

'I would not be too quick to absolve him, Your Majesty, he may simply have been ascertaining if the plot had been successful.'

'Oh, Cardinal, if that were the case, why did he not simply let the cake explode? My wife and I would definitely have been killed in that blast, and so would you, need I remind you?' He smiled at Treville, as though the Cardinal's reticence was somehow amusing. But Richelieu was not ready to give up.

'Do not forget, Your Majesty, there was the assassin who burst in after the bomb had gone off, no doubt to act as back-up should the first plan be unsuccessful. Thanks to Rochefort, that too was foiled.' Louis began to pout, things were becoming too complicated. He did not mind a complicated story, but he preferred it sorted and solved before it was bought to his ears. This was too complex and did not entertain him at all.

'I am sure when Athos speaks, he will provide further information to explain his actions. We await his recovery with anticipation, Treville.' He smiled at the Captain and frowned when the Cardinal added:

'I take it that for now he is under supervision at the garrison?' For once Treville smiled at the First Minister; after all, he was not about to lie.

'He is watched twenty-four hours. I assure you nobody could see him, nor could he be removed without my men knowing.' He had no doubt Aramis and Porthos would kill anyone who attempted to harm Athos, and at the moment there was no possibility of the man trying to leave the infirmary of his own volition. Richelieu had to be content with that, and withdrew into the shadows once more, though his face wore an expression of deliberation.

'Very well, Captain, carry on with your investigations and keep us informed.' Treville bowed, turned and left the room. It had gone far better than he had expected, Athos was safe for now, and the King had been more than satisfied. He knew, however, that it would only take a poorly-presented egg, or a delay in the palace repairs to alter the erratic Monarch's mood. Then, who knew what unexpected turn the investigation, and Athos' future, may take.

He walked along the corridors of the Louvre, unaware of the men emerging from a doorway a little further on. It seemed there had been some council meeting, and several men acknowledged the Captain as he slowly recognised their presence.

'Treville, it is good to see you!' On hearing the hearty greeting, Treville halted his progress, stopping to see who had addressed him. The tall but elderly gentleman stood grinning at the Captain. His eyes were unusually pale, a shock of white hair setting off their colour, making him a distinguished looking figure, but there was a fierce intelligence in those eyes, and Treville's face broke into a smile when he realised who it was.

'Your Grace, it is good to see you too, it has been too long.' The two men shook hands, as each appraised the other.

'You are looking well, if I may say so?' the Duke of Berry acknowledged, looking the younger man up and down. The Captain smiled and shook his head.

'I am in good health, though a life slightly less fraught than the last few hours would be nice.'

'Nonsense,' replied the Duke laughing. 'You would be bored in a couple of days. Do you remember when Paris was under siege and you were wounded? So young then, and like a caged tiger because you could not fight. How times have changed, my friend. You have done well, Captain of the King's elite regiment. I am pleased for you, it is what you deserve.' He smiled and clapped Treville on the shoulder.

'Thank you. Back then, you were just a younger son, with a promising military career. I was sorry to hear about Maurice and Pierre, it must have been hard on your father to lose two sons so close together.' Treville watched the older man frown as he relived memories of long ago.

'Yes, it was the end of him really; my mother had passed three years before, and the added loss took away his remaining fight. Luckily, we had a few years together for him to turn me from a soldier into a Duke.' He laughed, winking at Treville. 'But this business of the attempted assassination of the King is worrying, my friend. It is looking increasingly likely that Gaston was behind it once more. He is a pest, I do not know why Louis let him live after the last attempt. If it hadn't been for the quick thinking of your men, I dread to think what might have happened. But it wasn't one of your men who pushed the bomb out of the window was it?' Something on the old man's face made Treville wary.

'Why do you ask?' The Duke looked at Treville, as if to gauge the reason behind the man's obvious reticence.

'Nothing really, it is just I thought I recognised him. I could, of course, have been mistaken. I am not even sure the man I thought he was is still alive, though I have not heard that his estate has been claimed by the Crown.' Treville felt his heartbeat increase but, attempting to keep his face non-committal, he asked the question.

'Who did you think it was?' he said, showing a modicum of curiosity.

'He reminded me of Olivier de la Fère, you remember him? A hard man, but a good overlord of his estates. The Comte de la Fère, an old, respected title, but Olivier died several years ago, and the oldest son, who I think was also named Olivier, took the title. There was some tragedy in the family, I can't quite remember the details; I am not even sure they were in the public domain. It was something to do with the death of the younger brother. The Comte became a recluse for a while, then there were rumours that he had disappeared, or perhaps was dead – I do not know. But last night, when I saw that young man, he had the look of the old Comte. He was a handsome man, the younger Olivier, popular with the ladies as a lad, if I remember. Did you know him?' Treville was caught off guard, and wasn't sure what to say.

'I saw the old Comte at the palace several years ago, when the son of whom you speak was just a small boy. The man in the ballroom, he is my sword master from the garrison. He was mingling with the guests to observe Gaston's behaviour. I do not know of any connection with the former Comte.' He hoped he looked and sounded convincing.

'Was the man killed?' the Duke enquired.

'No, he is lying severely injured at the garrison. We pray he will recover.' The Duke nodded.

'He was very brave, and France owes him a great debt of gratitude. I hope he makes a full recovery. It has been good to see you, Treville. We must have dinner one night, talk over old times. Councils and talking about war and strife are no match for the thrill of battle. I miss it.' He looked wistful as he gave a farewell nod to the Captain.

The two men parted, and Treville stood in the corridor for a moment, trying to digest what he had discovered. It was as he suspected, they could not both be wrong. It seemed more and more likely that Athos was indeed the Comte de la Fère, though what he had been doing drunk and living on the streets of Paris, he could not for the life of him fathom. Something must have gone very wrong in the young man's life, to have bought him so low.

By the time Treville began his journey back through the streets of Paris, the afternoon was beginning to wane. He had made a few discreet enquiries before heading back to the garrison, and it seemed that what the Duke had told him was true. The de la Fère estates continued to pay their taxes, and no record existed indicating the death of the current Comte. However, he had not had time to check the records for details of deaths within the family, that would have to wait. Urging his horse on, he decided it was time to discover what the cuckoo in his nest knew.

Aramis had spent the last few hours swathing Athos' over-heated body in cold towels, and between him and Porthos they had not broken their task for a moment. At last, it seemed their luck was turning, as Athos gave a soft moan and his eyelids began to flicker. The flush on his cheeks had gradually diminished, and there were no longer beads of sweat gathering upon his forehead. Aramis grinned at the big Musketeer as though it were Christmas.

'Fetch the water and pain remedy Lemay left.' Porthos nodded and went about his task grinning from ear to ear. 'Athos, can you hear me?' There was no immediate reaction, but the flicker of his eyelids suggested that he was close to waking.

 _Cold, why am I so cold? I was so hot before, too cold now. He began a mental assessment of his condition_ , _beginning with his head. Perhaps not the best place to start, it banged relentlessly and_ , _somewhere at the back, where it touched the pillow, it was sore. As he moved downward, he noted the pain in his shoulder_ , _really no more than a dull ache. When he reached his chest and arms he began to moan, as if acknowledging the injuries somehow made them more painful. He remembered falling, but he did not fight; surely, he could not have been stabbed – not all over as the pain suggested. Struggling to open his eyes, he moved his hands to establish why his chest hurt so much. Something arrested his movement and he began to struggle._

'Athos, it is me, Aramis, do not struggle, I simply do not want you to disturb the stitches in your chest. Calm, look, I am letting go of your hands.' He let go of the clenched fists and prayed he would not wrench open his wounds. Slowly Athos began to settle, and his eyes began to open.

'That's betta, no one's glared at me for a while, I'm beginnin' to feel lonely.' Porthos grinned as he passed the water to the medic. Athos frowned as though confused. 'What's up, somethin' wrong?' the big man queried. Athos looked from Porthos to Aramis before trying to speak. His throat was so dry that his voice came at out as little more than a croak.

'Don't… believe…' he struggled to say.

'What don't you believe?' Aramis questioned his patient, concerned he may be reacting to his head injury.

'Do not… believe... Aramis… not glared...' There was a slight twitch of his lips, and his eyelashes fluttered, before his lids drooped shut once more. Porthos let out a loud bark of laughter at the show of humour from Athos.

'That's better, much more like Athos.' He slapped Aramis on the back making him spill the water over Athos in the process. The liquid was cold. Having the door to the infirmary open for so long the air was frigid, and so engrossed had they been in their attention, they had failed to notice. When the ice-cold water dropped onto Athos' chest his eyes shot open once more and he exhaled.

'Excellent timing,' Aramis laughed. 'Now you can drink this nice chilled water, it will ease your throat and you will feel better in no time.' Athos screwed up his eyes as though he was not convinced. 'Porthos, help him to sit so he can drink more easily.' The big man stood behind Athos and lifted him gently from the bed, whistling as he did so.

'Your back is a pretty picture, there are so many colours it looks like the sky during a thunder storm.' Aramis began to laugh. 'What's he doin'?' Porthos asked, frowning.

'You don't want to know, but there is no need to feel lonely anymore.' He continued to laugh as he held the cup to Athos' lips to help him drink. And that was how Treville found them when he entered the infirmary – Aramis laughing happily and Porthos grinning like a simpleton. As he rounded the bed and saw the unamused expression on the swordsman's face, he, too, began to smile.

'Athos, it is good to see you awake. I hope they are not annoying you?' Athos' brows rose in astonishment, as if the two Musketeers ever did anything but. Treville laughed, and for a moment he felt genuinely relieved. Athos' eyes began to droop, but at least this time he went back to sleep with the ghost of a smile playing upon his lips.

As they tidied up around the sleeping figure, the air was much lighter, and their banter returned to normal.

'Cover him over and close the door,' instructed Aramis. 'Better build up the fire too. Now his temperature has returned to normal, he will begin to feel the cold. The blood loss is still significant.' As he said this, there was an involuntary shudder from the bed and Porthos hurriedly fetched a blanket. With Athos warm and comfortable, the three men sat down, for the first time in hours, and each took a glass of wine. Serge had bought food earlier, and now they ate as though they had not eaten for a week.

'What news do you bring from the palace?' Aramis asked between mouthfuls of bread and cheese. Treville frowned slightly.

'It appears likely Gaston has left the city with one other, but who that is we do not yet know. I am hoping when Athos awakes and feels up to talking, he can help fill in some of the blanks. After all, he must have seen or heard something after he left the ballroom to make him turn around and come charging back in.' The two Musketeers shook their heads.

'We didn't see anything. He was ahead of us, angry, we were trying to catch up with him. The baker went past with a servant wheeling the cake along the corridor. Athos almost bumped into them as he stormed around the corner. Then he just stood there for a minute as if he was trying to work something out.' Aramis took up the tale.

'He just shouted _cake_ , then turned on his heel and ran back toward the ballroom. We passed Gaston hurrying toward us and Athos asked him where he was going.' Treville leant forward.

'What did he say?' fascinated to hear exactly what had happened between the two men.

'Can't remember exactly what the idiot said, somat like… _get out of my way, didn't you hear what my brother said_ … anyway Athos gave some stinging response and told 'im to come back to the ballroom with 'im.'

Aramis chimed in once more. 'He was terrified, I thought his eyes were going to pop, there was no way he was going back inside that room.'

'Then what?' asked Treville, though he had a pretty good idea of the answer.

'That was the best bit,' Porthos declared, and both Musketeers beamed. 'Whenever I lose at cards or it's a miserable day, I'm gonna remember that moment and play it over in my head. Athos rolled his eyes with impatience and said sommat' like… _well if you will not come with us, you will have to stay here_ … then he punched him. A wonderful right-hook lifted him clean off his feet. Reckon he had been working up to it since we left Orleans. I do hope he remembers it. It would be a real shame if he didn't.' All three of them were grinning now.

'Well the Duke will. I suspect he will have had a few loose teeth when he woke up.' Aramis laughed.

'I must say I would dearly love to have seen that.' Treville grinned, imagining the scenario with relish.

'What about the Cardinal?' asked Aramis, bringing Treville back to earth. The two Musketeers watched their Captain, awaiting his response.

'He is shifty as usual, but I do not believe he had any knowledge of the attack. After all, he was lucky to have escaped uninjured; if the large beam had fallen slightly to the right, we would be looking for a new First Minister.' The two men frowned.

'I'm not sure whether to be grateful or disappointed,' Porthos countered. Treville grinned briefly.

'Of course, there is also the question of the second man. Who was he, and what was his intention? The King and the Cardinal believe he was the back-up in case the bomb failed, but I am not so sure. From outside he would only have heard the blast, he could not have known that the cake had been thrown through the window. So why would he run into the room without waiting to see what had occurred?

'Perhaps he thought everyone would be dead and nobody would notice.' Aramis suggested. Treville looked unconvinced.

'But it was a suicidal plan. The explosion alerted the rest of the soldiers and Musketeers in the palace and outside and they would all have rushed to the ballroom. Even if the King had escaped unscathed and the back-up plan had worked, the shooter would never have survived. As it was, Rochefort killed him before he could even let off a shot.'

'How very alert of 'im,' Porthos growled. 'My ears were still ringin' and I wasn't sure which way was up, let alone shoot anyone. Perhaps 'e's more useful than I thought.' He pursed his lips and scowled, not really liking that idea. Treville shook his head.

'Doubtful, but at least he is out of the picture for a while; the Spanish contingent are leaving tomorrow, and they have requested Rochefort escort them back to Madrid. So, he is one less problem for us to concern ourselves with. No, I have made several enquiries and everyone who remembers anything says the same thing, he burst through the door, waving his gun around. Several remember him smiling.' Treville looked perplexed. None of this made any sense.

'Perhaps he thought the bomb had worked, perhaps he did not have time to realise the King was still alive before Rochefort shot him,' Aramis offered. All three turned as they heard a weak voice enquire:

'Why?' Athos had propped himself up on his elbows, and though he was breathing through the pain it elicited, his face was deep in thought.

'Athos, you are supposed to be asleep,' Aramis chided, immediately behaving like a mother hen. He held the cup once more, whilst Athos sipped the cold water. When he had finished, he turned his head away and his eyes searched out Treville. Finding the Captain, he asked the question again, though his voice was still quiet.

'Why… was he … waving it… around?' Talking was obviously an effort, but when Aramis began to reprimand him, Treville held up his hand, indicating he wished to hear Athos speak. Aramis and Porthos stood at Athos' side and allowed the man to lean back against the big Musketeer, taking the weight from his injured arms. Sighing slightly, Athos nodded his thanks.

'What do you mean Athos?' asked Treville, encouraging Athos to continue. The man thought about it for a moment.

'When you… enter room… with gun… what do you do?' Athos looked exhausted, but he watched and awaited their response. All three men looked puzzled for a moment. Then Porthos smiled.

'Take cover,' he grinned.

'Take aim,' added Aramis.

'You don't stand and wave your gun around,' Treville finished, registering comprehension. 'I could not think what it was that bothered me about the witness statements. He _waved it around_ , he did not protect his position, or aim for anyone in particular.' He looked at Athos with a sense of wonder. Athos nodded before whispering once more.

'It was a game...' He breathed slowly, trying to get his breath.

'What do you mean, son?' Treville urged, fascinated by the young man's insight.

'Said… he was… smiling… waving gun… around… not serious.' The other three looked at each other, the scenario beginning to offer possibilities.

'Someone put him up to it.' Aramis proclaimed. 'But who?'

'Rochefort… he shot him… knew.' Athos slumped back against Porthos, causing Aramis to look alarmed. Athos held up his hand to indicate he was alright, but his brow was furrowed, and beads of sweat had broken out upon his forehead once more.

'Lie down, son, you did well.' Treville smiled. Athos looked at his Captain and his face crumpled.

'Sorry.' His eyes began to droop and Treville looked concerned.

'What for, what have you to be sorry for?' Athos tried to open his eyes, but his eyelids were just too heavy.

'Told me to… stay… awake… tried… couldn't… failed… sorry.' Treville began to dispute Athos' remark, but he was fast asleep. The Captain slumped into a chair beside the bed and reached for the limp, cold hand lying on the bed. He placed it underneath the blanket and pulled the cover gently up to the man's chin, speaking quietly. Sensing the moment was private Aramis and Porthos busied themselves elsewhere, to give the Captain some time alone with the man.

'Athos,' Treville sighed. 'You did not fail me, son, you did not fail your country or your King. The only person you ever fail is yourself. You see things others do not; you were the only one who worked out what was about to happen. I have a place for you here. I do not care what the Cardinal, or the King say. You will be a Musketeer, Athos, and you will be a great one.' With that, he rose from his chair, nodded to the two men and left the infirmary.

Aramis and Porthos exchanged glances.

'Well, he worked that one out then.' Porthos smiled.

Aramis laughed. 'Yes, he has a gift for solving a problem. Treville sees it, we see it. But just how do we convince the King to see it?' The two men looked at the sleeping figure as his chest rose and fell, evenly at last.

As the moon rose over the garrison, Athos slept a deep and untroubled sleep, unaware of the three men whose rest, for once, was more disturbed than his, as they puzzled over how to make Athos one of their own.


	32. Chapter 32

**Chapter 32**

Treville sat in his office, nursing a glass of brandy. He thought over what Athos had just said and considered the possibilities. The behaviour of the assassin, if that is indeed what he was, had been very odd. He had not entered the room in a way that suggested concealment, in fact just the opposite, he had deliberately drawn attention to himself. Treville remembered how the doors had shot open, the sound of them hitting the frame reverberating around the room, halting the advance of those bent on leaving the terror of the ballroom.

The man had stood there, almost smiling, waving the pistol around, just as the witnesses had described. Treville tried to recall what the man had done next. Had he looked toward the King? No, he did not think so. He had looked at Rochefort. He did not search the room, appearing to stop quite deliberately, just inside the door, and look to his left. Yes, and when Rochefort pulled out his weapon and shot the man, the stranger had looked thoroughly surprised.

None of this helped, though he now believed Athos was right, the man was merely acting a part, and rather badly at that, as Treville would have been surprised to discover the man had ever fired a gun before in his life. So who would pay a man to walk into the Louvre ballroom and pretend to be an assassin? It was suicide. Unless, of course, you told them it was part of some giant practical joke. But who would orchestrate such a thing? It did not feel like the Cardinal's work, he was not one for the over-dramatic. Porthos had got it right when he said Rochefort did well to react so quickly, but then perhaps _he_ was not surprised, perhaps _he_ had been expecting the man. Could Rochefort have been in league with Gaston? Treville ran his hands through his already thinning hair. At the rate things were going, he would soon have none. He decided that he would view the body of the would-be assassin in the morning, and see if it could tell him anything further.

He thought back to Athos, and it made him smile to think he was linking his impending baldness with the man lying in the infirmary, though he certainly caused enough stress to make a man lose his hair. He chuckled to himself. It had been reassuring to return to the garrison and find the mood so much lighter. He realised the young man's recovery would not be swift, but then he had been on his feet far too soon last time. However, he did not expect Athos would lie around the infirmary for long on this occasion either. He imagined, not for the first time, what it would be like to sit and talk strategy with the man. His insight was superb, and he would be a joy to discuss missions and plans with. He had an uncanny ability to see all of the pieces, moving them around until they fitted. He had obviously been listening to their discussion in the infirmary, despite the severity of his injuries. Perhaps not being there, in the ballroom, when the stranger had arrived, had helped – no misconceptions, just the statements of witnesses.

Just as soon as he had considered the potential of having Athos in the regiment, he realised there was another scenario that he needed to contemplate. What would happen if he could not make the King capitulate? What if Athos was not offered a commission? Would being a sword master be enough? Treville suspected he knew the answer to that. How long would it suffice? How long before he returned to the taverns and brawls of his recent life? Or would he simply leave? There was nothing to keep him here if he chose to go. Treville could do nothing, and he doubted even Aramis or Porthos could persuade him to stay, once his mind was made up. Would it help if he admitted his suspicions and asked Athos outright if he was the Comte de la Fère, or would it drive him away? Just what was the man hiding?

More digging, the list was growing longer. Tomorrow would be a busy day, and it was time to settle the garrison and get some rest. As it was, he had not slept properly for weeks, and he doubted tonight would be any different.

In the infirmary, Porthos was laid out on one of the beds sleeping. He and Aramis had been working hard to battle Athos' temperature all day, and both men were worn out. Lemay had visited earlier, declaring Athos on the road to recovery, providing there were no more complications. Wounds were not an exact science – especially sepsis – infections could strike even when a wound appeared to be on the mend. Still, Athos had drunk the pain remedy prepared for him, and a little extra water. Now he slept, though he was not as calm as he had been earlier in the day.

Aramis sat beside him, his booted feet resting on the bottom of the bed, and his head supported by the back of the chair. He watched Athos' eyelids flinch, as though he were recoiling from something, or someone, in his dream. His fists gripped the blanket, and his long fingers showed white at the knuckles, so tight were they clenched. He noticed a slight flush to the man's complexion, and immediately began to worry his fever had returned. Turning down the blanket for a moment, he held a candle aloft, checking the wounds on his arms, legs and torso, for signs that the infection had returned. In the dim light, he could see nothing obvious, but that did not mean it was not there. When they had tucked the covering over Athos' shoulders once more as the man had begun to shiver, they had not dressed him in a shirt, simply so he would not have to be man-handled every time they needed to check on his wounds and dressings.

A sound echoed across the quiet of the garrison, and Aramis wandered over to the doorway to listen, a soft smile curving his lips as he recognised the singing emanating from somewhere close to the garrison. Carols. Christmas would be upon them in a day or two, and he had not given it a thought. They had been so consumed, first with the arrival of Athos, then the mission to collect Gaston, that November and most of December had passed in a blur. He against the doorframe, inhaling the cold, fresh air, attempting to keep himself awake, when a sudden cry from inside the room startled him.

'Athos!' He pulled the door closed and rushed back to the bed, where Athos now lay tangled in sweat-soaked sheets, thrashing and moaning as though fighting off an unseen adversary. Aramis knelt by the side of the bed and attempted to whisper close to Athos' ear. If he could avoid waking Porthos he would, unless he had no choice.

'Athos, it is alright, you are dreaming. You are in the infirmary, you are safe.' He rested his hand gently on the man's shoulder, not wanting to restrain him, for he knew it would only agitate him more.

 _Athos was aware of a familiar voice, but the words were faint, and something else clamoured for his attention. He was overwhelmed by the scent of jasmine. He was cold, and pain spiked through him, yet he could smell the sweet aroma all around, overpowering his senses, suffocating him like a pillow. A voice… sad… a gentle touch… then nothing. Sudden shouting… a sharp kick to his ribs… jeering… then nothing. Where was the scent? It was soothing, or was it making him worse? He could not tell which. He was so muddled. Why were they yelling so loudly?_

'Stop. No more… quiet… dark… stop.'He tried to shout the last word, but his mouth was so dry, he only emitted a whispered croak, but it was enough to wake him. His eyes flew open, and he stared around the infirmary, ready to take on whatever assault awaited him. His hand dropped to his side, but found nothing, no sword, no weapon. The lack of protection sent him spiralling into panic, not really awake, but no longer asleep, still oppressed by the spectres of a dream, his confusion making him feel vulnerable. Not an emotion he was used to – or embraced.

'Athos, my friend, wake up now! There is no one here, only Porthos and I.' He rubbed Athos' back as carefully as he could, not wanting to represent a threat to the semi-conscious man. He considered handing Athos his sword, but decided he liked his head just where it was, and an anxious and half-asleep Athos, armed with a sword, was as close to suicide as he ever wished to get. No, just talk him round – that was the sensible option.

'Athos, can you hear me?' This time Athos turned his head, staring at the medic with unfocussed eyes.

'Are they gone?' he managed to mumble. Aramis reached for a cup of water and carefully offered it to Athos, not sure if he was fully awake. Athos looked down at the cup and nodded, sipping the water slowly. His lips attempted to form a smile but failed, and his eyes slid closed.

'No, no, not yet. Drink some more, it will help.' Athos forced his tired eyes open once more and attempted to take another sip. He turned his head away looking over at the other bed, where Porthos snored quietly, unaware of the latest drama. The sight of the big man sleeping seemed to calm Athos, and his breathing began to slow.

'I am sorry… dreaming,' he managed. Aramis helped him to settle back on to the pillows, but this time his eyes remained open. He looked at Aramis and frowned. 'You look awful.' When Aramis began to chortle, trying not to laugh too loudly, Athos frowned even more. The medic shook his head and tried to regain his control.

' _I_ look awful? You should look in a mirror!' Athos managed to smile at this, though it was really only the barest twitch of the lips. Aramis became thoughtful. 'Who were you referring to? Who were you asking if they were gone?' Athos looked blank, as though he had no recollection of whatever it was Aramis was asking about. Slowly he nodded.

'Not sure. I was on the floor… someone kicked me, hard… more than once. Jeering… then nothing.' He looked confused. Aramis thought over what he had heard, could it have been the guards? They were stood over Athos when he and Porthos had run out of the palace. Bastards, he would not have put it past them, but he supposed they suspected Athos of being involved. Still, it made him livid to think they had added to his injury, and it was lucky he had not received broken ribs to compound everything else.

'Well, there is no one here apart from Porthos and me, and we will not let anyone near you.' Athos nodded, but remained perplexed.

'It was there again.' The words were spoken so quietly that Aramis had to lean closer to catch what Athos had said.

'What was there?' Something about the expression of fear upon Athos face warned Aramis to be on his guard.

'Jasmine.' It was as he feared. He had been waiting, ever since the night in the Château when Montmorency had been killed; he knew one day he would have to admit that he had lied, but he was not sure this was that moment.

'Perhaps it was on one of the guards, a liaison in one of the palace rooms? It is not unheard of. Ladies of a certain standing enjoy a little frisson of excitement, being entertained behind closed doors by a soldier, it could easily have happened.' The scenario was indeed possible, but in the Louvre? He wasn't sure even he would be that stupid, but then they were Red Guards, and they were very stupid. He had almost convinced himself it was possible when Athos spoke again.

'I felt her… this time… she touched me.' Athos searched Aramis' face for any sign he thought the swordsman was mad. 'Do you think… I am losing my mind?' Aramis shook his head and stroked the damp hair from his friend's forehead.

'No, not mad, not even a little crazy. Well not really.' He grinned and gave Athos a nudge. 'But you had just fallen three storeys cradling a bomb in your arms, so I am not surprised your senses were playing tricks on you, my friend. Who knows who was around when you fell? Some serving wench may have rushed to your aid. How many girls are lucky enough to have a handsome man literally fall at their feet? Mind you, the bomb may have ruined the moment, so no wonder she fled.' Aramis was rather proud of his inventiveness, and Porthos would have been very impressed. Athos appeared to consider the medic's explanation, but he did not appear convinced. Still, neither could he argue with Aramis' logic. Instead, he just gave a humph and closed his eyes. They reopened instantly and he reached out, placing his cold fingers on Aramis' hand.

'You will stay?' Aramis' heart melted. As if he would have harboured any other intention.

'Of course, mon ami, I will be here all night.' Athos nodded, allowing his eyes to close, and falling instantly asleep. A deep, rumbling voice broke into Aramis' musings.

'That was pretty impressive, even for you.' Porthos swung his long legs over the edge of the bed and yawned. 'Do you believe it, or do you think the ghost of this dead woman is haunting him, leaving behind the scent of jasmine?' Aramis scowled at the big Musketeer, placing a finger over his lips. Porthos had the decency to look rather contrite, and held up his hands in apology.

'Whatever is going on, it is playing on his mind, and he does not need the distraction. So watch what you say. This is not the time nor the place to discuss it with any real consideration. Something is going on, of that I have no doubt. I smelt it too, do not forget. Still there are numerous explanations and I am convinced, eventually, we will find the correct one. I am going to attempt to sleep. I will stay in the next bed and, if he asks for me, do not hesitate to wake me. I hope he will sleep now, he is too pale and too frail.' Porthos patted the medic's shoulder, but he could not leave without one last parting shot.

' _A frisson of excitement behind closed doors with a soldier_ , in the Louvre?' He raised his brows and grinned, whilst Aramis merely rolled his eyes, shaking his head in annoyance.

Porthos settled his large frame into the chair next to Athos. He placed his hand upon the sleeping man's chest, as if remembering his terror when he thought Athos was not breathing. Aramis smiled as he watched the gesture, noting the Musketeer's smile as he felt the gentle reassuring thump of Athos' heart. No nobody would cause him any harm tonight, they would have to get past Porthos first.

Paris had been shocked by the news of a bomb at the Queen's party, though there were those, of course, who thought the over-indulged, spoilt members of the nobility deserved everything they got from anarchists. However, the whole the population was appalled – an attack on their King, was an attack on France. At first, they had been reticent to talk to the enquiring Musketeers, but when it became obvious that they were not looking for a culprit, but rather trying to find one they had lost, they relaxed, and provided what help they could. Now, at last, things were returning to normality, and the market traders had returned to their stalls, selling their wares ready for Christmas.

It was Sunday. Athos had slept the remainder of the night and had awoken a lot stronger, even managing a little of Serge's broth, though unwillingly. He heard the ringing of the church bells and urged Aramis to attend mass. He knew the medic did not want to leave his side, but he assured him Porthos would be there, and after all, he was surrounded by a garrison of Musketeers. So reluctantly Aramis had agreed.

As he sauntered through the already busy streets, the early morning mist that had descended, shrouding the dawn city, began to lift. He smiled, it was good to be outside. A weak sun was trying to force its way through, whilst a pale blue sky peeped between the low-lying cloud, and once the mist had finally dispersed, it promised to be a beautiful day.

Amongst the morning crowd, two men pretended to examine the wares of a potter, whilst watching the Musketeer heading with the rest of the morning worshippers to mass.

'That's one of 'em. He's on his own. The big one must be back at the garrison.' The taller man who was with him nodded. He had a scarf wrapped around his head, and only his eyes could be seen underneath the wide brimmed hat he wore.

'That's all very well, but neither of them is the one I want. We have waited here for days and have not seen him. We need to find out what is going on.' The smaller one nodded.

'If we could get inside, we could poke around, we might be lucky and spot 'im ,' he suggested, looking hopefully at his colleague. He winced in surprise when he received a smack around the head.

'Don't be stupid. This is not some thieves' hideout, it is the Musketeer garrison. They are not going to just let you in to look around, you idiot.' He sneered at the smaller man's discomfort. 'Of all the men I could have been left with, it had to be you.' He spat at the floor and pushed past the disgruntled man, ignoring the mumbled complaint it elicited. 'Let's get a drink so I can think.' The two men headed for The Wren and found a table at the rear. Though very early, it wasn't the landlord's business to question what time his customers chose to begin partaking of his beverages.

They sat in the darkness, away from any prying eyes; not that anyone was going to recognise them this far from home. They sipped their ale and sat in silence. The small man began to twitch, and when he had built up enough courage, he began to speak.

'It is nearly Christmas, perhaps we should just let it go. No good can come of this, Bisset, we are only two, we cannot fight an entire garrison.' He had hardly finished speaking when the bigger man turned and grabbed him by the throat.

'Let it go? You think I should let _this_ go?' He pulled away the scarf that swathed his head, revealing ugly, raw scars from a recent burn down the entire side of his face, and his eye, which seemed to hang awkwardly in a soft pulp of red and shiny skin. 'Do you think Margarite will welcome me home for Christmas when she sees this? Do you? He owes me, and not just for this – I never got the rest of the money I was promised, and I had already paid out for the men. Huh, and a lot of use they were!' He let go of the smaller man, failing to notice him gasping for breath like a floundering fish. 'Now shut up, I'm thinking.'

Aramis had waited for the church to clear, so that he could have a moment of quiet contemplation with God. It was not often he was alone, as even in his rooms, the garrison always offered up some distraction. Here, in the quiet of the church, there was true silence. He bowed his head, only slightly aware that someone was hurrying down the side aisle toward the nave. He raised his head in time to see a woman approach the priest, as he blew out the service candles. As always, curiosity overcame his moment for pious meditation. The woman's voice carried clearly in the vacuous space.

'Father, I am frightened. Edward has never done anything like this before. We should have left Paris last night, for our appointment at the Château. I have told the other players we will catch up, but I do not know where to look.' The priest's voice was low and calm, though what he said, Aramis could not hear, but apparently it did not appease the agitated woman.

'I do not know, Father. He only told me it would be a good job, that we could live well for a while, and we would be able to rest after the Christmas performance. I do not know his intentions.' She appeared reticent to explain further, and for some reason she suddenly calmed.

'Forgive me, Father, I am sure there is an excellent reason, he is probably awaiting me at home as we speak. I must go, he may need me.' With that, she turned and scurried back the way she had come. Aramis slid from his seat and hastened after her.

Once on the steps outside, she paused, as if the spring sunlight had blinded her for a moment, giving Aramis the opportunity, he needed.

'Forgive me, Madam, Aramis of the King's Musketeers. I could not help but overhear your troubles in the church. May I be of assistance?' He bowed and offered his most winsome smile. The woman hesitated for a moment, but then the tears began to flow. This was not quite the reaction Aramis had anticipated, and he guided her back to the shadows of the church doorway, away from prying eyes.

'Madam, forgive me, I did not mean to cause you any anxiety. What is the problem?' He offered her a square of linen and she dabbed at her eyes, attempting to regain her composure.

'It is my brother, Edward. We are travelling players, we perform at house parties, small gatherings, often for the nobility.' She added this latter information as though she felt it gave her some element of higher standing. Aramis nodded and urged her to continue. 'Several weeks ago, he came home all excited, said he had met a man who had offered him a job. He would not elaborate, said it was a surprise and if it was discovered, then he would lose the job. He had been sworn to secrecy you see.' Aramis nodded again, refusing the linen with a smile, as she went to hand it back. 'Well, he said nothing else, so I tried to discover more, but he was like a child with a secret. Then, last week, he met with the man again, only this time when he came home, he was quiet. Not worried, but thoughtful. Said the nobility were an odd lot if they thought frightening each other was entertaining. Again, he wouldn't say more, just that he was getting a great deal of money for a few minutes' work. He had expected to be home several nights ago. He kissed me goodbye and said he would be back before we had to leave, but he never came.' She looked at Aramis, fear in her eyes.

'Is there something else, something you are not telling me, Madam? From what you have said, you are not in any trouble, but any further information you can give me may help us to find Edward.' He felt guilty offering the woman false hope, for he already had a good idea what had befallen Edward. The woman nibbled her fingers and looked around to ensure no one was close enough to hear.

'He told me no more than I have told you. But I am no fool, Monsieur, whoever hired him, had money, and a lot of it, if he was paying for my brother's discretion. Who else has that kind of money for only a few minutes work, other than a noble? I understood enough to guess he was attending an event of some kind. Monsieur, my brother went out on the night of our Queen's birthday party, and never came back.' She clutched at Aramis' sleeve, as though it were a lifeline.

'Madam...'

'Mademoiselle...' she corrected. Aramis smiled and gave a small bow.

'Forgive me, Mademoiselle, let me escort you home. If Edward is not there waiting for you, I will make some enquiries on your behalf. What is your name?'

'Marie, I….' She began to chatter about life at home with her brother, but Aramis was not really listening. Someone had asked a poor player to perform some scenario at an event, it would only take a few moments, and for that he would be paid a great deal of money. It had to be the mysterious stranger with the pistol. Why else would he have made the comment about considering the entertainment to be frightening? He left Marie at home, with the news Edward was not there, and promised he would return. At least that was a promise he _could_ keep.

Aramis burst in through the infirmary door to witness the now-familiar scene. Porthos was playing cards with the infirmarian, whilst Athos attempted to read a book, usually scowling at the distraction. It had been established during Athos' last period of recuperation, that Porthos was not a quiet card player. He regularly either grumbled or celebrated loudly, much to Athos' annoyance, though he had long since given up complaining, or requesting peace and quiet. Porthos had explained that if he had to watch over his miserable charge, he felt he should be able to entertain himself as he liked. Athos had then upped the argument by insisting he needed no watching over, upon which Aramis, as always, had soothed the troubled waters and suggested Porthos play on the other side of the infirmary, by the window, where it was lighter. Aramis had felt like a proud parent who had settled two truculent children: _if you cannot play nicely then stay away from each other._ Athos had continued to scowl, but Porthos had accepted the compromise with a smile.

Now, as Aramis walked in, Porthos had won the game, as he was roaring with laughter, his victim still wearing the shell-shocked expression that most of Porthos defeated opponents sported. The big man was just rising, slapping his adversary on the back, and thankfully the smaller man was still smiling, so no swords at dawn. Aramis grinned in amusement as he noted Athos' pained expression. Just as before, he had not been effusive in his chatter; polite, grateful, all of those things, but they knew no more about him than they had the day they first met. There had been suppositions, hints of his upbringing, but that was all. Still, Aramis had always loved a challenge, and breaking through to Athos, was definitely that.

'Good morning, and what a beautiful day it is!' All three men looked at him as though he had uttered some profanity. 'Come now, gentleman, the sun is shining, spring is in the offing and all is well with the world.'

Porthos narrowed his eyes, 'It's December, 'ave you been drinkin'?'

'Too much communion wine,' Athos re-joined, with his usual droll delivery. He raised his brow and pushed himself up into a sitting position. He was healing well, but such movement still elicited pain. Aramis made to assist, but Athos held up his hand.

'Well, it's not a woman, not this early, and not on a Sunday,' Porthos added. Athos gave a snort of amusement, whilst Aramis looked hurt.

'I have been to church, as Athos wished. God really does move in mysterious ways, gentlemen, as indeed, I did meet a young woman.' Before he could continue, Porthos let out a loud guffaw and slapped his friend on the back.

'Only you, my friend, only you.' He continued to laugh, whilst Athos merely rolled his eyes.

'Aramis, really, that is not why I suggested you attend mass.' Though he attempted to look superior, there was a glint of amusement in his green eyes. Aramis appeared irritated.

'My friends, as always, you do me a great injustice. I was communing quietly with God, when she appeared out of nowhere.' Porthos roared once more.

'Don't tell me you think she was a vision from God?' The big man wiped the tears from his eyes, whilst Athos' lips quirked, mainly at Aramis' growing annoyance.

Athos thought it best to interrupt before Aramis lost his temper, 'I think our friend is attempting to tell us something of great import.' Porthos looked over to Athos, who was trying to remain serious, tilting his head toward a pouting Aramis. Porthos cleared his throat and pursed his lips, nodding, in an attempt to look deadpan.

'Spit it out then, who was she?' Porthos asked, as solemnly as he could manage. Aramis scowled at his two friends, knowing they were merely teasing him. His reputation with women could be burden on occasion.

'I met a young woman named Marie, she was seeking guidance from the priest regarding her missing brother.' Both men now gave Aramis their full attention. 'She and her brother, Edward, were part of a travelling group of players. They were due to leave for somewhere or other, she did not say, to perform a nativity for the festivities. Only Edward went out and never came back.' He let his words sink in. Athos responded.

'Where did Edward go?' He had begun to form an idea, but this was Aramis' story to tell.

Aramis grinned, 'She did not know. He returned home some weeks ago, with the news he had been hired by a man for a great deal of money to perform just a few minutes' work at a secret destination. He would say no more, other than it was a surprise, and he had been sworn to secrecy. Then, a few days before he disappeared, he met with the man again. This time, upon his return, he was not so buoyant. Apparently, he was flustered, but all he said was that the nobility were odd indeed, if they considered terrifying each other entertainment.' Athos and Porthos exchanged nods and waited for Aramis to deliver the line he was so obviously desperate to impart. They sat and waited, Athos raised a brow and urged:

'Pray continue.' He smirked at Aramis who grinned in return.

'Edward went out and never came back. He left on the night of the Queen's party, and nobody has seen him since.' The three men exchanged nods of confirmation. It was Athos who spoke what they had all surmised.

'Our mysterious, party guest with the pistol.' He dipped his head and smiled. 'Your God certainly came to our aid today.' Aramis smiled, noting the words _your God_ , but now was not the time to discuss Athos' view on theology.

'What now?' Porthos enquired.

'We need to tell Treville,' Athos replied, deep in thought, various scenarios already running through his brain. He was tired once more, though for a few moments he felt recovered and able to run variations through his head as normal, but soon he would flag – it appeared even mental activity exhausted him. He let his body settle back against the pillows and closed his eyes. He knew Aramis would notice, as he missed nothing. Athos gave the ghost of a smile as he heard his friend's voice.

'Athos? Are you well?' Aramis was at his side in a moment. Athos lifted his hand, but it was a rather pathetic effort.

'Tired, is all. Fetch Treville.' A voice in the doorway interrupted them, causing the exhausted man's eyes to fly open.

'No need, he is here. What is wrong? Is Athos ill?' He strode over to the bed, concern filling his already tired features. The look his three men gave him spoke volumes.

'I slept badly,' the Captain muttered. They nodded, attempting to appear unconcerned. They knew the man was under a great deal of pressure to discover what had occurred at the Louvre, whilst locating Gaston, and discovering who else may have been involved. Added to that, they suspected he had been shielding Athos from whatever accusations had been flying around, following his sudden enlightenment involving the cake – a tale they had yet to hear fully.

'Aramis has news,' Porthos imparted. Aramis explained to the Captain what he had learned, and Treville looked thoughtful. Indicating they should pull up a chair, he announced: 'I think it is time we looked at this from the beginning, gentlemen.' They all three nodded. Athos closed his eyes and the two Musketeers settled down to listen.

'It begins with the King announcing he wished to throw a surprise party for the Queen. It was not a significant birthday and, as it falls in December, it is not at all a suitable time of year for it to be celebrated. It does not sit well from that moment. Louis then announces his desire to invite his brother, on some weak pretext of goodwill of the season, reconciliation, etcetera. Again, most unlike our vengeful monarch.' The men each arched a brow but said nothing. 'I manage to persuade him to leave the invitation until the last possible moment. Reluctantly, he agrees. Now, supposing Gaston was behind the invitation, which seems highly likely, he could do nothing until the invitation arrived. There have been rumours of gatherings of men at various locations outside Paris, they are slowly filtering through the channels of information. Separately, they would have been of no concern, but had they become one, it would have been a considerable force on an unsuspecting city.' This time, the two Musketeers looked alarmed, and Athos frowned, deep in thought, eyes still closed.

'Without the invitation, they could do nothing, it was still possible the King may change his mind. They could not act until Gaston was safely inside the Louvre. If they showed their hand, Paris would be locked down and Gaston would never be admitted. They could not have foreseen the events that then took place to slow down your arrival. The attack on your party, and the snow, added to the delay, Gaston finally only arriving on the morning of the party. Whatever military action they had planned, I doubt they would have been able to organise it in time by then.' Athos voice surprised them:

'Plan B.' He gave the ghost of a smile, and Treville nodded.

'Yes, son, I think this is your part of the story to tell.' Athos nodded, narrowing his eyes in concentration. Gathering his strength, he began to speak, his voice mellow, and his speech succinct, even though his weakness was obvious.

'As the Captain says, it was wrong from the beginning. None of it made any sense – most unlike the King. Someone was behind the suggestion, but we could not be certain it was Gaston, as Richelieu was just as likely to be plotting something sinister. I considered the threat, if it came, would be on our return, surmising that if there were a plot, then Gaston was just as likely a target as the King. Travelling in the snow at this time of year, attacked by brigands, no one would consider it amiss.' Treville and the two Musketeers nodded in agreement.

'The first attack was unexpected. Few people knew we were on route to Gaston with the invitation, but apparently Bisset was one of them. I allotted this intervention to Richelieu, as only he would wish to prevent the Duke from attending the party, though why I do not yet know. But if he wished to prevent Gaston from receiving his invitation, then he was not behind an assassination plot.' He paused and closed his eyes for a moment. His head swam, but the Captain was awaiting his explanation, so he plodded on. He noted Aramis' frown of concern as he opened his eyes; his head was beginning to ache, and he gratefully accepted the water Aramis offered him. Giving the medic a reassuring nod, he continued.

'If I were in any doubt about Gaston's involvement, it fled when I witnessed his overly-dramatic reaction to the invitation – it was far too rehearsed.' Both Musketeers voiced their agreement of Athos' assessment.

'Made quite a show of it, but 'e didn't seem at all surprised,' Porthos added. Athos continued:

'Then several things happened to complicate our understanding of events. I was attacked outside the tavern at Toury, the axel of the coach broke, or was tampered with...' At this, the two Musketeers looked surprised.

'You think it was deliberate?' Aramis asked in amazement.

'I am not sure, but something about the Marquis d'Angoulieme's eagerness to remain behind, suggested he did not wish to accompany us to Paris. If there is a weak link in this chain, it may well be him.' He looked toward Treville who nodded in appreciation of the suggestion.

'Either way, there was then the death of Montmorency. We tried to fit it all together, but I do not believe they were meant to be connected. The only thing of import was the invitation to the party, all other events were just unforeseen circumstances that clouded the water. Still something bothered me. Right from the night we spent at the Château d'Ambois, I could not help feeling that I held the pieces of a puzzle– I just needed to discover the final piece.' Porthos glanced at Aramis, but the medic merely shrugged his shoulders and looked as puzzled as the big man.

Oblivious, Athos continued. 'When I left the ballroom on the night of the party, I was furious, and was not considering where I was going. I almost knocked over the man escorting the cake, when suddenly it all fell into place. At the château, as I climbed the stairs, I bumped into a servant carrying a box. I used almost the same words as I said to the man in the corridor, but it was not that, it was his response. Most servants are taught never to make eye contact with their superiors, and to take full responsibility, even if, as in my case, it was I who was not minding their direction. But on both occasions, this man looked me full in the eye, and his expression was anything but subservient. Then there was the man in the tavern at Toury, I never saw his face, but there was something about his shape, his size. It was the same man I am sure. As I walked away, it suddenly seemed obvious, the cake was the perfect Trojan horse.'

Treville smiled at the young man's reference. Porthos begged to ask the question, but Aramis gave him a nudge to stay quiet. 'I did not wait, I just acted. I could have been wrong.' All three men tried to imagine what would have happened if he had been. Porthos winced at the punch to Gaston, and Aramis considered what would have happened if Athos had flung himself and a perfectly innocent cake out of the window. For a moment there was silence. Then, as usual, Porthos began to laugh, with Aramis soon following, then Treville too. Athos looked somewhat taken aback.

'I am sorry, my friend, I was just picturing Louis' face if you had simply barged in, ordered him and the Queen to be thrown to the ground, and then leapt out of the window with a perfectly normal cake. I am sorry, but even Aramis could not have talked you out of that one, my friend!' As the reality of what he had suggested hit home, all three men sobered rather quickly.

'Thank God you were right. An amazing piece of deduction though, son. Perhaps next time…' Treville looked at Athos, imploring him to attempt a little more restraint on the next occasion he was faced with such a dilemma.

'There was no time,' was all Athos said.

'So, what now?' Porthos asked again.

'We search this Edward's house. He may have details he did not pass on to his sister,' Treville declared. 'I will keep an eye on Athos whilst you two go back to the house and see what you can find. Everything will be fine here.' The two men looked at Athos, who nodded almost enthusiastically. When they had left, Treville smiled.

'I thought you might enjoy some peace and quiet. You did well, son, but you still need to keep your head down. For reasons I cannot decipher, Richelieu has taken against you, so it would be a good idea not to bring yourself to his attention for a while.' Athos looked at the Captain. If there was a sadness in his eyes it was a mere flicker before he spoke.

'As you see fit. I doubt I will be doing anything to upset him just yet,' he said, indicating his incapacity. Treville smiled and furrowed his brows.

'Yes, you would think so, but somehow, son, you have an uncanny knack of becoming embroiled in problems not of your own making, and I worry that, even in the garrison infirmary, you are plotting some action of which I would not approve.' Athos raised his brows, portraying the picture of innocence. Treville scoffed and walked toward the door.

'Rest, Athos, and keep out of trouble.' Athos watched the door closing and then looked across at the infirmarian, who was busy about his chores. Yes, he decided, a little peace and quiet would be nice. He closed his eyes and finally allowed himself to fall into a light sleep.


	33. Chapter 33

**Chapter 33**

Athos opened his eyes with a start. The infirmarian had dropped something on the stone floor, the resulting clatter forcing him awake. The man glanced over his shoulder, offering a weak smile of apology for his clumsiness. The shadows had lengthened, and Athos judged it to be late in the afternoon. Slowly, he raised himself up into a sitting position, and reached for the water on the table beside his bed. The water was cool, and the sleep had done him good. The headache that had threatened earlier had now passed, and he began to consider all that had occurred that morning, and wondering what, if anything, Aramis had discovered at the house of the travelling player.

'I am going for something to eat. Shall I bring you some broth?' the infirmarian asked kindly. Athos really did not want food, but he decided a little broth was preferable to a dressing down from Aramis upon his return.

'That would be most kind,' Athos responded, giving the man the slightest smile. The infirmarian was glad to find an excuse for a little respite. He could not quite understand the man he was looking after, he was always polite and appreciative, but there was something about his refusal to talk or, when he did, the superior way he spoke, that made him uncomfortable. Yes, he would be glad to take his meal in the refectory, listening to the old cook moan about his charges, and discussing the latest gossip. Athos would be perfectly safe inside the garrison.

oOo

At midday, The Wren had begun to fill up with people arriving for some sustenance before the afternoon's trade began. It was soon full, and Bisset and his companion had to shuffle along the bench to make way for the three men who had pushed their way through the crowded bar whom, Bisset noted with interest, each wore the pauldron of a Musketeer.

The men were talking quietly, and Bisset could not hear what they were discussing. Just at that moment, Aramis and Porthos ducked into the busy tavern. Not stopping for a drink, they simply asked the landlord a question, then left. However, their brief appearance had certainly provoked the Musketeer sitting beside Bisset, as suddenly his voice rose, his anger all to apparent.

'Oh, here come two of Treville's lap dogs, going about their master's business no doubt. And what do I get – stable duty! _Do not let anyone near the horses Deveaux, Do not let anyone near the infirmary Deveaux_.' He mimicked his orders in the sing-song voice of a child, and spat at the floor in disgust. 'I can tell you right now, if a whole horde of Red Guard wanted to get at Athos, I'd let them in. He has been nothing but a nuisance ever since he arrived. From what I hear, he could have been as much to blame for the whole scenario at the Louvre as Gaston. If Treville had sent me to bring Gaston to Paris, none of this would have happened. Whatever was Aramis thinking, letting Athos give the orders, God only knows. He was only employed as a sword master, but why I do not know, he is nothing but a drunk, and a lucky one. I could take him in a fair fight any day!' He waved at the serving girl to bring him more wine and his two companions murmured their agreement, though the expressions on their faces suggested they were not entirely sure.

Bisset began to smile, he may just have found the breakthrough he was looking for. He signalled for the girl to come to his table. 'More wine, my girl. Will you join me and my colleague, gentleman? I may be able to help you with a problem.' Deveaux eyed Bisset, noting the part of his face that peeped out from the scarf around his face. He gave a snarl of distaste but when the man spoke again, he began to listen.

'It would seem we have a mutual thorn in our sides. A thorn I would be only too happy to remove.' Realisation registered on Deveaux's face, and he slowly raised his cup to Bisset, a devilish grin twisting his spiteful features.

oOo

Once the infirmarian had left the room, Athos breathed a sigh of relief. The pressure on his bladder had increased and he abhorred asking for assistance. Now the man had gone, he felt sure he would now be able to make it far enough on his own. Sliding his legs gently over the side of the bed, he prided himself that he had learned a lesson from the last time he had attempted to stand too quickly, shaking his head, when he considered it had only been a matter of weeks since he had last found himself in this predicament.

Gradually, he straightened up, or at least attempted to. He hissed, deciding he must have lost some skin somewhere in the healing process, as he no longer appeared to be able to stand upright without the sensation that he was stretching his flesh too tightly along his body. As he lifted his head, trying to straighten his shoulders, his torso complained bitterly. At last he managed to stand upright, even though the effort had stained his cheeks pink and brought sweat glistening upon his forehead. His breathing once more under control, Athos began using small steps to navigate around the bed to the much-needed bucket. As he put one foot in front of the other, his tread became a little firmer. His heart beat rapidly but, other than that, he made good progress. Reaching his goal, he dealt with his ablutions and instantly felt better. Slowly, turning toward the bed, his eyes were drawn to a pile of clothing upon a chair.

He smiled. God bless Madame Bonacieux – his clothes and weapons, safely returned. He felt the soft leather doublet, at least he would not have to replace this one. But then he remembered the velvet coat she had loaned him, and he groaned. _Do not damage it_ , she had requested. Well he had not seen it, but he could only imagine the state it would be in if his own chest was anything to go by. Then there was her bill – he did not want her to think he had absconded owing her money. He was deep in thought when a noise at the infirmary door caught his attention. Damn, he had thought that Moreaux, the infirmarian, would have been gone longer. He had hoped to find his shirt and put it on before he was interrupted; there was something far too vulnerable about lying around dressed only in his braies.

Turning his head toward the doorway, he noted two figures, one somewhat shorter than the other. Their faces he could not see, as the light had forced them into silhouette.

'I thought they said he was bedridden,' the smaller man whispered.

'So, what. He is ill, and there are two of us,' Bisset sneered, walking further into the room. As he walked away from the light, Athos could now see his face clearly.'

'You!' exclaimed Athos. 'What do you want here?' Instinctively he reached down for his sword, thanking Madame Bonacieux once again for her reliability. The sword felt good in his hand, but he was aware of its weight – not such a good sign. He remembered the effort it had taken to walk the short distance from the bed; he would not fare well in a fight, not against two.

He tried to take slow, firm steps, not wanting to alert them to his frailty. 'Why have you come here? You cannot hope to harm me and escape unnoticed.' He hoped that if he kept the man talking, Moreaux may return and he could take advantage of the situation; though, at the same time, he did not want the infirmarian to come to any harm.

'Revenge, plain and simple, no complicated agenda; plain, cold revenge,' was the reply. Athos looked puzzled.

'You want revenge upon the man you kidnapped and tortured? That is certainly an interesting twist. I would have thought that was mine to carry out?' Bisset hissed and moved closer, the smaller one following, though his eyes constantly darted back toward the door. Athos did not recognise him, but then he had not seen all of the men in Bisset's gang.

'Still a smug bastard. You were a job, nothing more. All you had to do was give me the damn invitation. But no, you had to play the hero,' he seethed, almost within Athos' reach. The swordsman could feel the strength in his legs wavering, and he prayed to Aramis' God not to let him fall, not yet.

'You should have let it go Bisset, you had your life – which is more than you will have in a few moments.' The man growled, and pulled the scarf from around his face.

'This is what you and your friends did to me. Let it go? I don't think so.' With that, he was done with talking and he bought his sword down toward Athos' waiting blade. The resulting clash of steel made Athos' entire body shake, and his arm felt the shock from his wrist to his shoulder. Not good, but he gritted his teeth and instinct did the rest. He flicked his wrist and parried Bisset's blade. As it came off the man's sword, he swung it to his left and knocked the smaller man backward with the force of his attack, the little man underestimating Athos' strength. Bisset was smiling, he could tell Athos was injured, and indeed, the swordsman could feel the sweat running down his face as he tried to fight through the pain that now burned throughout his torso.

Athos knew he could not keep this up for much longer. As he edged the men backward, Bisset lunged again pushing him against the table where Aramis laid out his tools. Athos' eye was caught by the light glinting off the metal, and he grabbed the small knife which the medic used to cut through flesh. As the smaller man leapt toward him, Athos thrust the sharp blade forward with his left hand, as he raised his sword in an attempt to fend off Bisset. The little man made no sound, but Athos felt the flow of warm, sticky blood as it pumped over his hand. He let go of the handle, and the man sank to his knees, issuing just the faintest whoosh from his dying lips. Bisset growled, but so did Athos. In fact, he never actually heard the roar that elicited from his lips, but from somewhere deep inside he found an extra surge of energy. If he were about to die, it would not be without a fight. He threw his weight behind his thrust and knocked Bisset's sword to the ground, bringing up his own and drawing blood from a shallow cut to the chest. Metal clashed against metal, as Athos pushed the man further back toward the door. As they came face-to-face, Athos' sword slid down that of his opponent, leaving them inches apart.

'So now I am alone. That is fine by me. But I will see you die, Musketeer!'

'I am… not… a… Musketeer,' growled Athos, as he pushed the man away, and with a move Bisset hardly noticed, he flicked his sword clockwise around Bisset's blade and buried it deep into his shoulder. The timing was impeccable. The sound of horses thundered through the garrison entrance – a rumbling noise that Athos knew only too well. Suddenly, a head appeared in the doorway, the face once again obscured.

'Psst, too late, they are back. You have to leave.' Athos registered the voice but could not place it. Bisset staggered back, just as the surge of energy Athos had found left him, and his sword clattered to his side. Clutching his wounded shoulder, Bisset turned toward the door.

'This is not over Mus… whatever you are.' He gave a maniacal laugh and headed outside.

Athos felt as though he were suspended in mid-air – he could not seem to stand, yet neither could he fall. His arms hung heavily by his side and he just stared at the open doorway, hoping whoever came through it next was on his side. As a tall figure filled the aperture, he sighed with relief – no one could fail to recognise that silhouette.

'Porthos,' he managed to whisper, before his legs finally realised they were too weak to hold him up.

Aramis and Porthos had finally returned to the garrison, having been sent on a wild goose chase. They had received word from some urchin, telling them to investigate a certain outbuilding on the edge of the city, where it was suggested bomb making materials had been discovered. By the time they had realised they had been sent on a fool's errand, they had wasted hours. Concerned someone was trying to head them out of Paris, they had doubled back, riding at a gallop. The two Musketeers on guard duty had jumped out of the way in surprise as the two horses had thundered through the garrison archway, both men sliding to the ground before the horses had come to a stop. Alerted by the noise, Treville came out on to his balcony, and as he saw the two men head straight for the infirmary, he bounded down the stairs, two at a time.

When Porthos walked through the doorway, Aramis right behind him, his heart skipped a beat. Athos stood in the centre of the room dressed only in his braies, arms hanging limply by his sides, his sword abandoned on the floor, where it had fallen, and with blood covering his left hand and arm. Somehow, during the fight, he had also managed to smear it over his face and torso, offering the two terrified Musketeers a ghastly sight.

Aramis almost sobbed, and Porthos, seeing Athos' eyes roll back, shot forward and caught him in his arms before he had a chance to fall. Gathering him close, he carried him back toward the bed.

'Weighs nothing but a bloody feather,' he mumbled to hide his fear. Aramis was pestering to get a closer look.

'Oh Athos, what have you done now? We cannot leave you alone for a second.' He examined his friend, desperately trying to locate the new wound from which the blood had flowed.

'Aramis, Aramis!' The medic registered Treville's voice and looked up, annoyed at the distraction. 'I do not think the blood belongs to Athos.' Both Aramis and Porthos stopped what they were doing and followed the Captain's gaze. Lying on the floor, in a large pool of blood, was a small man with one of Aramis' surgical knives sticking out of his heart. Aramis looked to heaven and mumbled a prayer of thanks. However, he still resumed his examination of Athos but, soon realising that the majority of the blood was over the man's left hand and arm, the notion of it coming from the other dead man's wound made perfect sense.

Athos' eyes fluttered open. When he saw the medic hovering over him, he managed a groan. 'What is it, what hurts?' Aramis asked in panic.

'You do,' was Athos' only response. The medic looked confused, but Treville hid a smile. 'I thought we had moved past this,' Athos added, opening one eye to check the medic's reaction. Porthos gave a deep belly laugh and Treville joined in, both delighted to see that Athos was unharmed, and even Aramis saw the funny side, though he still managed to scowl.

'Why can we not leave you asleep on a bed and return a few hours later to find you still asleep on that same bed?' implored Aramis. 'You are either trying to get on a horse, or limping across the courtyard, or having a fight you cannot possibly win.' His voice cracked a little, and Athos felt the full weight of Aramis' tirade. He reached up and cupped the medic's neck, pulling his head down to his own. Aramis allowed the gesture as their foreheads touched for a moment, his own cool skin feeling the heat from his friend's exhaustion.

'I did not have a choice. I think you would prefer I fought, rather than stand and let two men do their worst.' At this Aramis stood abruptly.

'Two men?' He looked around, and saw Porthos picking up Athos' discarded sword, still bloodied at the end.

'Well, whoever the other man was, you gave him something to think about by the look of it.' The big man grinned, relieved Athos was still standing, despite the efforts of two men.

'Who were they?' Treville barked, his voice angrier than he intended. Athos looked sheepish feeling suddenly responsible.

'One is named Bisset, this other man I do not know,' he replied, gesturing to the corpse upon the floor.

'Bisset? The one who gave you the beating and the large lump on the head?' Athos and Aramis gave Porthos a look, reminding him that, when recounting the mission to Treville, they had omitted certain _details_ concerning Athos' time at the hands of the raiding party. Porthos looked a little uncomfortable, but the damage was done.

This was the point where Treville would usually have ordered them into his office, as dressing them down in front of his desk had a more lasting effect; it did not seem the same shouting at them when one of them was injured and flat on his back.

'So, this is the man paid to prevent the invitation from reaching Gaston? I thought he died in the fire in the forest?' Aramis and Porthos shifted uncomfortably, trying to remember the tale they had told.

'We did not actually see him fall. However, he was inside the building when Porthos set it on fire,' Aramis offered.

'I didn't actually set it on fire, it was an accident,' Porthos muttered. Aramis raised his eyebrows.

'Oh, I am sorry, you never said,' the medic added, looking moderately reprimanded.

'I was aiming at Bisset, but it ricocheted and hit one of the barrels,' Porthos continued. Aramis nodded his head and pouted.

'I see.' Athos had watched the two men, torn between amusement and annoyance. Treville had no such dilemma.

'You two, my office, now. I will be with you in a moment.' Aramis and Porthos exchanged looks and glanced at Athos, who nodded, and they filed out without a word. Treville had not missed the exchange between the three men.

Turning toward Athos he said: 'And you need not think you are getting away with it. Don't bother to give me that succinct mumbo jumbo, leaving out all of the unimportant parts where you get tortured and beaten. I told you to rest, and not to get into any trouble.' Athos tried to decide which part of the speech to address first.

'Nothing we told you would have altered his actions. It was simple revenge. He was badly burned in the fire, I think it unhinged him slightly. It was me he wanted.' Treville ran his hands through his hair remembering his thoughts of the night before.

'I thought my job could be stressful before you came along – God knows they were bad enough on their own. But the three of you… the three of you are… incorrigible… you're… uncontrollable.' Athos looked at the Captain, his face crestfallen.

'I am sorry. You are right.' He lowered his gaze and suddenly felt sick. He raised his head, and Treville noted the man's colour turn a sickly green. He reached for the bowl just as Athos bought up what pitiful amount of liquid had been in his stomach. Treville instantly felt remorse. The boy should have been safe in his garrison, he should not have been alone, and attacked, in the place where the sick were bought to heal. If anyone was to blame it was him. He removed the bowl and gave Athos water to sip. He placed the cup on the table and took a seat by the bed.

'No, I am the one who should be sorry. I will find out how they got inside the garrison. This is the Musketeer Regiment, not some attraction for anyone to wander around. You should not have been at risk, you should not have been alone. I let you down, son.' Athos looked at the Captain and shook his head.

'No sir, you did not. The guards were changing over, they had probably watched and knew this. Moreaux had just gone to fetch me some broth, I am glad he was not here, I would not wish any Musketeer to come to harm because of my actions. It was my plan that created this, my idea, it was no one else's fault. Neither Porthos, nor Aramis are to blame.' Those green eyes held a whole world of sorrow as they beseeched the Captain to place the responsibility firmly with him.

Treville realised there were suddenly so many things he wanted to say, but found himself speechless. To Athos' surprise, the Captain stood and placed his hand on Athos' shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze.

'Just rest, son, and this time I mean it.' As he left the infirmary, Athos heard the door close with a definite thud. What was in store for the other two he had no idea.

The two Musketeers had stood to attention behind the Captain's desk, waiting for their fate to arrive.

'He's takin' 'is time,' Porthos noted.

'He is probably explaining to Athos what resting is supposed to mean,' Aramis offered.

'Well good luck with that,' Porthos grunted. 'I'm beginnin' to think he has a different vocabulary to the rest of us – rest, fine, stay safe, sensible – I think they must mean different things to him. Get up and tire yourself out, hide your wounds, act like an idiot and jump out of windows, that's what they mean to him,' he growled.

'Don't be angry with him,' Aramis soothed.

'I'm not, I'm angry with us.' His shoulders slumped and Aramis stood in silence. They heard the familiar sound of boots upon the stairs and stood straight. Treville threw open the door, another one who was angry.

'You two, there's a heavily scarred man running around Paris with a large hole in his shoulder. Find him.' For a second Aramis and Porthos simply stared at the Captain – this was not the conversation they had anticipated. 'What are you waiting for? _Please_?' The Captain glared at the two men, and they hurried from the room whilst they still could.

'He's angry,' Porthos declared.

'He's tired, and angry,' Aramis added. 'We didn't tell him about the actor's house.'

'There was nuthin to tell. We found some money, could have been from anywhere.' Porthos mused.

'Fifty livre, is a great deal of money.' Aramis chided.

'Well, after she identified the body, I reckoned she was going to need it,' the big man added. Aramis slapped his friend on the arm.

'You are too soft, mon ami. Too soft.' Porthos simply snorted. It was getting dark and it would be no use trying to find an injured man at this hour. 'Wait,' Aramis called as Porthos headed for the stable. He walked over to the archway, Porthos following behind.

Deveaux stepped out of the shadows. 'Oh, look who it isn't, it's the two guard dog Musketeers. It must be very confusing not knowing who to suck up to next, Treville or Athos.' He looked smug whilst Aramis gave the statement some thought.

'I don't know. The Captain has a certain powerful air, but Athos has pretty eyes.' His hands moved so swiftly that Deveaux never saw them coming, until Aramis had his throat in a vice-like grip. Like many men, Deveaux merely saw a handsome face with charming manners, and like many men, he failed to see the ruthless, experienced soldier.

'Were you on the gate when Athos was attacked?' Deveaux remained silent. The other guard made to approach but Porthos simply frowned and shook his head. The guard noted the advice and backed away. 'It appears you did not hear my question.' He banged Deveaux's head off the wall twice, and then said through gritted teeth: 'Were you on the gate when Athos was attacked?' Deveaux nodded his head, though he was not sure which direction it moved in. 'Did you let them in? Think very carefully before you answer.' Deveaux looked scared, but he was still more scared of Treville. He shook his head and whimpered.

'No, I didn't. I swear.' He darted a look to the other guard, who was doing his best to see nothing. Aramis noted the sudden look and released Deveaux. The man instantly slumped to the ground. Aramis turned swiftly, striding over to the other Musketeer. He saw Aramis approaching and made to run, but Porthos, like a colossus, barred his way with a broad grin on his face.

He backed up against the garrison wall and squeaked: 'You can't touch me. I'm a Musketeer.' Aramis looked thoughtful.

'But you are also his friend, so you lose a point. Now I am going to ask you the same question I asked your friend. Only this time I am bored, so I am going to make it more interesting.' He pushed the man over to Porthos, who picked the much smaller Musketeer up by the scruff of his neck and suspended him from his huge fist, the man's feet desperately kicking, trying to find purchase and failing. Aramis produced his pistol and made a great performance of preparing it. He smiled at the squirming man.

'Now, I have never really tried this in the dark before, and to be fair it is usually melons, but I am going to ask you a question, and if I do not like the answer, I am going to shoot off your earlobe. At least I will aim at your earlobe, but it has been a trying day and I have not yet eaten. My hands are not as steady as they could be.' He shook his right hand as if to illustrate the point. The Musketeer was now terrified. He had seen Aramis shoot melons off Porthos' head. He knew he was an excellent shot, but an earlobe…

'So, the question is, did you allow anyone inside the garrison this afternoon when Athos was attacked?' The man could not wait to give his answer.

'No, no, I wasn't here. Deveaux said he felt ill, he sent me to fetch water. He sent me to his room for a water skin. When I got there, it was empty, so I had to go to the refectory to get it filled. When I got back you and him,' attempting to nod in Porthos' direction, '…were just getting off your horses.' Aramis gave Porthos a nod and he let the Musketeer drop like a stone. They both turned again to Deveaux, who was now back on his feet.

'So what? I sent him to get me some water. I was not to know he would be so long. You cannot prove I let anyone in.' He backed up as Porthos large fist knocked him into the air.

'If anything, anything at all, happens to Athos whilst he is in the infirmary, I will find you and I will kill you. Do you understand? Just nod.' Deveaux, nodded, and as blood coursed down his face, he glared at the two men, hate in his eyes. They had probably just made a bad enemy, but they would live with it.

As they walked back inside the garrison, Porthos asked: 'Should we tell Treville?' Aramis nodded.

'Probably.' Porthos agreed, and they headed toward the staircase.

'Would you have shot him?' Aramis looked in consternation at his big friend.

'Definitely.' The two men laughed as they headed up to the Captain's office.

'Deveaux? Are you telling me a Musketeer deliberately allowed those men into the garrison to kill Athos?' Treville barked. Aramis ran his hands though his hair.

'We cannot prove it. Boudrais claims Deveaux sent him to fetch his water skin from his room, as he was feeling ill. Whilst he was gone, we assume Deveaux let Bisset in, but how he arranged his escape I do not know. We were all taken up with Athos, and it would not have been as difficult to slip a man out as getting him in.'

'But why?' Treville asked, still incredulous.

'He hates him,' Porthos stated. 'Has done ever since that morning when Athos thrashed him in the courtyard, and he wasn't at his fittest then either.' Treville remembered it well. It was the first time he had witnessed Athos fight, he would always remember it.

'He is a disgrace, but I cannot dismiss him from the regiment without proof. We will simply have to watch him for now.' Treville sighed.

'I don't think he will be a threat whilst Athos is inside the infirmary,' Aramis added, looking somewhat shifty. Treville opened his mouth, then smiled.

'Better I don't ask.' The two Musketeers adopted their most innocent expressions and Treville chuckled. 'Get some sleep, one of you will be in the infirmary I am sure.'

'We both will,' Porthos stated, brooking no argument, not even from his Captain. Treville smiled and nodded.

'I think gentleman, as soon as Athos is ready, it is time we visited the King.' The two Musketeers grinned and left the office, a great deal happier than when they had entered.


	34. Chapter 34

**Chapter 34**

The garrison was quiet for the next few days; Christmas was little over a week away and several of the regiment were on leave with their families. Edward Boudain had been formally identified as the man with the pistol, and had been assimilated into the plot to assassinate the King; Louis had not been particularly interested to know why, he was just happy to have an explanation. He had pardoned Marie of all involvement, and there had been no mention of the money found at the Boudain house, so at least she would not be without support. Athos had been up and about, despite Aramis' complaints, but as nothing would keep him in the infirmary, they had allowed him to go back to his own room.

Athos was surprised when Aramis knocked on his door and entered.

'I thought you were on palace duty this morning?' Athos queried. Aramis shrugged his shoulders.

'Treville reassigned me. He has sent me to fetch you, he wants to talk to you.' Athos quirked his brow and looked at the ceiling.

'Why? I have not blown anything up lately.' Aramis chuckled at the typical quip.

'I genuinely have no idea, my friend.' The two men walked down the hallway in companionable silence, though Athos sensed that Aramis had something he wanted to say. However, he knew that if he waited long enough the Musketeer would unburden himself. As they neared Treville's' door, Aramis placed his hand on Athos' arm. 'I will be just below if you need me.' Athos frowned but nodded, then knocked on the wooden door.

'Come,' the voice answered. Athos opened the door. He was walking almost without hesitation now, getting only the occasionally twinge as the skin healed over his numerous wounds. He had been remarkably lucky – Aramis had explained how being unconscious before he hit the ground had probably saved his life, that and the heavy drifts of snow.

'Athos, it is good to see you looking so well,' smiled the Captain. 'Take a seat.' As always, Athos perched on the edge of the chair, up straight and formal, as though ready to bolt. Treville straightened the paper on his desk, whilst he decided how to begin. It was not as if he had not planned this speech a thousand times, yet each time he had changed his script, and even now he had not decided on the best approach.

'I think we have given the King long enough to be able to consider events clearly now, and I would like to take you before His Majesty to request your commission in the regiment.' He watched Athos carefully, gauging his reaction. The young man looked astonished.

'Will he agree?' was his honest reaction. Treville decided on an equally honest answer.

'I do not know, son, but now is the right time to find out. I want you in the regiment… if that is what you want?' Athos glanced at the Captain and Treville was appalled at the look in the young man's eyes. What was he afraid of? Rejection? Well, there was nothing else for it, there was something that he needed to tell the man.

'Some years ago, I was just a young soldier in the army. We were drafted in to bolster the guards at the King's birthday party, Louis you understand, he was just a boy – ten maybe.' He noted Athos stiffen. 'I was chosen because of my age. There were many children I suppose, and they thought younger men would be better. It was a fairly trying assignment.' He smiled, but Athos looked at him as if turned to stone. 'Most of the children played games, with hoops and swings, and ran in and out of the maze. But one boy in particular showed me his new toy soldiers.' Now he had Athos' attention. So he had not made the connection earlier then? Treville was not surprised. 'The boy could not have been more than ten, yet he had a maturity beyond his years. He showed me his strategies for several campaigns, and told me where he thought they had gone wrong. I remember him because…' Athos suddenly spoke, though his voice was low and shaking.

'Eight, I was eight. You remember me because I made a fool of myself, and my father made sure everyone knew it.' He looked at Treville, and there was more pain in those green eyes than at any time when he had lain in the infirmary under Lemay's forceps. Treville was mortified.

'No, son, that is not what I remember. I remember a young boy who talked sense of things beyond his years, who showed an understanding of strategies that cannot be taught in any book. But most of all, showed honour and humility. You didn't deserve that dressing down, son, but you took it, and you still showed respect and decency in your dealings with the soldier who beat you. There was not a man present who was not impressed by your behaviour that day.'

'Except my father,' Athos whispered. Treville stood and ran his hands through his hair – _definitely bald in twelve months_ , he thought. 'Why did you bring this up?' Athos asked quietly. 'Will you tell the others?' Treville stopped pacing.

'Not if you ask me not to.' Treville pledged. Athos nodded.

'I would be grateful,' was all he said. However, Treville had come this far, and he wanted more.

'Why Athos? Why give it all up? What happened?' Athos had paled, and Treville thought he had pushed him too far, almost afraid of what Athos might now reveal.

'I never really wanted it, I wanted to be a soldier.' Treville felt the pain, and he smiled as he thought of the little boy pestering the soldiers the entire day. 'Obviously, there was never any choice. I was the oldest. Thomas, on the other hand, he could have the life he wanted. I was glad for him, we were close, but kept apart. My father wanted his heir to be a good overlord, to understand the estate and all that it entailed, but Thomas was the one who knew what to say, smiled and made people laugh, made me laugh.' He smiled as he remembered the golden-haired little boy who had teased his quiet older brother. 'It was up to me to look after him. I failed, he died. It was my fault.' There was something in the abrupt change in his manner that told Treville he had said as much as he intended.

'Was it an accident?' Athos visibly flinched.

'No,' was the only response he gave.

'An illness?' Treville pursued his question.

'He was murdered, in our own home.' Athos almost spat out the answer. Treville was taken aback at the sudden venom in Athos' voice.

'I am sorry. Was the murderer caught?' If he thought Athos had been pale before, he was now almost grey. For a moment, he thought he saw the boy sway in his seat.

'Caught and hanged… it was my duty…' Athos whispered the final words as though they were not meant for Treville. The Captain had not expected the conversation to take the turn that it had, and for now, he would ask no more. He did not think the young man could take any further questions.

'Tomorrow, we will go before the King.' Athos stood up and nodded, though Treville was not sure he had heard a word he had said. Athos opened the door and walked down the steps, as if in a dream. Treville leant over the railing to Aramis, who had stood as soon as he heard the door open. 'Look after him,' was all the Captain said, before returning to his office and shutting the door. Aramis rushed to the bottom of the stairs, horrified when he saw the expression on Athos' face.

'What on earth is wrong, mon ami?' Athos pushed Aramis away, and continued to walk toward the archway. 'Where are you going? I will keep you company.'

'No!' Athos shouted. Aramis stepped back in surprise at the outburst. 'Not this time Aramis. I need… just let me be. _Please_.' The word held so much anguish Aramis could not argue, he stepped to one side and let the desolate man pass. He watched as Athos merged with the busy crowd; he stood upright, but there was none of the usual swagger Aramis associated with Athos' gait. He sighed and hoped he had done the right thing, he hoped he would return in one piece. If not, he thought, Treville was going to kill him, after which Porthos would make sure he was dead.

Athos walked for some time, he did not know where, or for how long. It no longer mattered. He had said it. Out loud, to another human being. It was no longer locked away inside his heart, inside his head. He, Olivier d'Athos Comte de la Fère, had allowed his brother to be murdered in his own home – the one place he should have been safe – by the woman his brother had bought into their house. The woman who had taken his heart and soul and murdered it, along with his little brother. The woman he had taken out and had witnessed hang for her crime. The woman he had loved with all his being.

He had reached a quiet patch of green beside the cathedral – it was silent, with only the birds singing in the trees. He fell to his knees, and let the heavy weight in his chest unleash its pain. The tears fell in a steady stream, as he held his hand over his eyes to hide his weakness.

When it was over, he remained kneeling. Where there had been pain and anguish, now there was nothing. He felt nothing. But he knew it would return. It was not gone for good, just waiting, waiting until he was unaware – in his dreams, in a crowd, in a ballroom. He would see them, they would be there watching and waiting. They would never let him be. He needed a drink, but first he had something he must do.

oOo

It was late when Porthos rode back through the garrison, and Aramis, for once, was not glad to see him. Athos had been gone for several hours, but he had hoped he would return first.

'Long day,' Porthos complained. He hated palace duty, he would rather muck out the stables than stand idly by listening to court gossip all day. 'What's up? What's he done now?' Aramis sighed, sometimes Porthos could read him like an open book.

'Treville had him in his office this morning. He came out looking like… well like someone had told him the end of the world was nigh. Treville told me to look after him, then stormed back into his office.' He looked at Porthos.

'And, what did he do?' Porthos grinned, Aramis looked guilty.

'He left,' Aramis admitted. Porthos growled, scowling now.

'He left? Just like that? Without saying nuthin? Why didn't you stop him?' The big man was already walking toward the archway.

'He said he needed to be on his own. He looked awful. I thought he would be back by now.' Aramis trotted to keep up with Porthos' long strides.

'You know what he can be like.' The big Musketeer stopped and placed a hand on his friend's shoulder.

'I know, that's why I'm worried. Perhaps we should ask Treville what he said.' Aramis did not look too pleased at the idea of facing his Captain, but nodded his agreement. They turned around and mounted the stairs to Treville's office. They knocked upon the door and heard the usual response.

'Come.' Treville looked up as the two men entered. Knowing them so well, he recognised at once that something was wrong. He looked to the open door, expecting Athos to follow, and when no one else entered he asked: 'Where is he? I told you to look after him.'

'What did you say to 'im?' Porthos growled. Treville stood up, facing off to the big Musketeer.

'That is none of your business.' Porthos took a step forward.

'You made it my business when he walked out of the garrison and didn't come back!' Porthos shouted. Treville pushed the big man in the chest.

'Back off soldier. Do not come into my office and yell at me!' Aramis stepped in between them.

'Porthos, Captain, this is not helping Athos. I am the one to blame, I let him walk out of here and I should have stopped him, gone with him, I do not know, followed him perhaps. But he wanted to be alone and he has had so little of that of late, and I know how he prefers solitude. I thought he would have returned by now.' It all came out in a tumble and Aramis looked panic-stricken.

'He better not be drinkin' in some low dive and getting into a fight, 'e's not up to it yet and I'm not standin' over him whilst you stitch him up again.' Porthos' voice caught, and Treville lost his fight.

'I hope to God he is not, we have an audience with the King tomorrow. I told Athos I was going to seek his commission in the regiment.' Aramis and Porthos looked puzzled.

'And he was upset?' Aramis asked frowning.

'No, it was personal. I am sorry, gentleman, I do not have leave to discuss that. Athos did not wish it.' The two Musketeers looked astonished.

'Has he done something wrong?' Porthos asked.

'Nothing at all, from what I can gather. But that is not how Athos sees it.' Aramis nodded in understanding.

'I thought it was probably something like that. What do we do?' he asked Treville, both Musketeers looking to their Captain for advice.

'We find him, gentlemen, and quickly.' Treville collected his hat and the three men hurried into the night, in search of their missing brother.

Athos had been sitting at the table for several hours. In front of him was a carafe of wine and an empty glass. Neither unusual, except that the carafe was his first and, unlike the glass, it remained full. He had resisted the wine, fighting every urge in his body to return to the gentle arms of drunken oblivion. It was only Treville's words that kept his glass empty. _I want you in my regiment_ , _son_ … _that is not the way I remember it_. The man really believed in him. He had been there – that day. He remembered the young soldier, who had played war games with him. He wished he could remember his face, to place Treville in that moment. He had enjoyed that afternoon, until the swordplay and his father's admonishment. Strange how Treville remembered it so differently.

'Are you going to drink that wine, or just look at it? You're putting my customers off, they think there is something wrong with it.' The landlord hovered over Athos, his toothless mouth narrow and mean.

'There is, it is not strong enough,' was Athos' stinging retort.

'Ere, you saying I water down my wine?' Athos threw some coin down upon the table, grabbed the package at his side and walked out into the night.

'We have looked everywhere,' Aramis complained. Treville looked worn out.

'What about the place we found him that first night, where I was set up?' Porthos suggested. Aramis nodded.

'The Red Barrell, good idea.' They retraced their steps, eventually finding themselves outside the far from salubrious establishment. Treville looked it over.

'This was where you first met?' The two Musketeers nodded. Treville sighed, his sadness evident in his expression. 'Well let us pray he is not here now.'

They entered the heavily smoke-filled room, and whilst Porthos headed to the bar, Aramis picked out the girl serving tables.

'Excuse me, Mademoiselle.' As was so often the case when a member of the fair sex encountered Aramis, the girl blushed, giggled, and lifted her head, displaying her dimpled cheeks. 'I am looking for my friend,' he continued, and her smile diminished slightly, until Aramis held up a nice shiny coin. 'Tall, dark, not bad looking, quiet?' Aramis noticed that the last word had got her attention. He yanked the coin from her grasp and raised his eyebrow, 'You have seen him?'

'Does 'e 'ave a funny way of speakin', like the nobs?' she asked. Aramis smiled.

'Indeed he does, my lovely. When was he here, and was he sober when he left?' The girl gave a very unladylike snort.

'Noticed him earlier, he was nice lookin', not the usual sort we get in here. Sat over there in the corner. Ordered wine and a glass. Odd, we don't usually use glasses, fightin' and all, but he wanted one. He sat there for hours just looking at it. In the end Sal went over and asked him what was wrong with the wine. He said it wasn't strong enough. Thought there was goin' to be a fight, but he threw down a load of coins, and by the time Sal had picked them up he was gone. Sober as you or I he was.' She took the coin and turned to find a more willing customer.

Aramis caught the others' attention and they regrouped outside. 'He was here all afternoon, and has not long left, but he drank nothing. The girl said he ordered a carafe and a glass, then sat and looked at them for so long, the landlord asked him what was wrong. Athos, as usual, gave a deep answer, and the landlord thought he was complaining about the wine. He was appeased by the money Athos left, and when they looked again, he had gone. Sober as a you or I she said. Perhaps he has returned to the garrison?' Treville nodded.

'We will return, it is late, and I am not sure what tomorrow will bring. Let us head back. If Athos is not there, so be it, we have done all that we can.'

oOo

The next morning, Treville awoke with a heavy heart and a banging headache. He had not slept well, and he dreaded what the day would bring. If Athos was not here, he did not know what excuse he would give the King.

He stepped out onto the balcony and searched the sea of faces awaiting their duties for the day. Aramis, Porthos… Athos! There he was, smart in his leather doublet every button shining in the morning sun and weapons looking like new. Treville could not help but smile, noticing the other two men grin in response. Athos appeared pale still, and he did not look up to where Treville stood, still seeming to be lost in a world of his own. Still he was here, and he was ready, that was the main thing.

Once the Musketeers had gone about their duties, Treville walked over to the three men, his blue cape hanging elegantly from his shoulder. He had decided to say nothing of the previous night.

'Are you ready?' Athos looked at the Captain, calm and composed, but Treville sensed something of that small boy looking up at him, as though he needed his approval. 'You look ready, son.' There was just the smallest flicker, but it had been there, the need for reassurance. Treville took a deep breath. 'Then let's go.'

They mounted their horses, Roger looking as neat and well turned out as his owner – not surprising, as Athos had spent most of the night in the stable grooming and talking with his beloved horse.

They reached the Louvre and, as they were leaving the courtyard, they bumped into Madame Bonecieux. 'Captain, gentlemen. Athos! I didn't notice you there. How are you? You still look pale. And thank you for the money, for settling your bill.' As usual, it all came out on one breath, and the four men simply stood there, slightly lost for words. 'Well I am sorry I cannot stop to gossip, the King is not happy and I have work to do. Good luck, gentlemen, you will probably need it.' She was about to move on when Aramis halted her departure.

'Forgive me, Madame, what ails His Highness?' She looked over her shoulder, making sure nobody could overhear, before she gave a cheeky grin.

'He says he has a toothache. Most painful I am sure, but you know men.' She rolled her eyes and Treville's heart sank. This could be a disaster. Bidding her adieu, the four men ascended the stairs and walked toward the throne room in silence. As they approached the large doors, Treville halted and put a hand on Athos' arm. He struggled to find the words, but Athos spoke first.

'Whatever happens. I will not hold you responsible.' Before Treville could say anything in response, Athos pushed open the doors and the four men approached the King.

'Treville, I had forgotten you were coming this morning. I do hope it will not take long, I am most uncomfortable today – I have the most appalling toothache.' He held a cloth to his face and dabbed at it sporadically. As usual, Richelieu hovered to the Monarch's left. His robes were immaculate and he looked as menacing as always, the heavy cross he wore reminding those who chose to forget that he not only wielded the power of the state but also that of the church. He leant forward and whispered something in Louis' ear.

'Really Cardinal, must we do this now?'

'I am afraid so, Your Majesty. Best get it over with, out of the way.' Richelieu stepped back and gave Treville a weak smile. As usual, the Captain felt his fist clench.

'Your Majesty, I am here today to request that you consider Athos for a commission in the Musketeer regiment. It is my opinion that he has shown considerable dedication, honour and bravery during these last few weeks, and believe he would make an excellent addition to the regiment.' Louis sat for a moment and then spoke.

'That is all very well, Treville, but he has proven to be rather unusual, do you not agree?'

'Forgive me, Your Majesty, I am afraid I do not follow.' Treville looked puzzled.

'Well, for a start, the first time I saw him he was accused of murder, and he looked like some street vagabond. Then there was the business of him assaulting my brother, which I suppose I can overlook. Then there was the party. That was quite some entrance.' Treville stood in astonishment.

'Your Majesty, Athos saved your life.'

'Yes, yes, so you keep telling me, but the repairs were most costly, were they not Cardinal?'

'Indeed they were, Your Majesty. Might I also point out, Sire, your regiment is not for any stray man who professes to know how to handle a sword. It is for those of good breeding.' As he said this, he gave Porthos a derogatory glance, that none of the men missed. Treville was proud to note that the big Musketeer did not react to the slight.

'That is true, Cardinal. So, who is this Athos? What is his background?' Treville stumbled over his words and looked at Athos. The expression that met this enquiry elicited a sigh of defeat from the Captain. The plea to hold his tongue was clear; Athos would not reveal his identity to secure his commission, and without it Treville knew they would not win, not with the King in his current mood. In fact, the Monarch's next words almost confirmed it.

'Now Rochefort, he would have made a fine Musketeer. Do you not agree, Cardinal?' The First Minister smirked, and gave the Captain a victorious sneer.

'I am not sure, Your Majesty. I think perhaps he had a higher calling.'

'Higher than my Musketeers? You over-reach yourself, Cardinal, there is no higher calling than serving your King in battle.'

'Indeed not, Your Majesty, forgive me. Still, the news we have received this morning has been most gratifying.' Louis looked thrilled and clapped his hands.

'It so happens that our Ambassador in Madrid took a particularly nasty tumble down the stairs last night, dead I am afraid. But the good news is, the King was most taken with Rochefort and his bravery in saving Donna Maria from that mad man, and he has suggested Rochefort take his place. Most convenient,' imparted Richelieu.

'And so nice to know we have a man in Madrid we can trust. Is that not so, Cardinal?' added Louis.

'You are correct, Sire, most suitable.'

'So you see, Treville, that is the sort of man I can rely on. Your man is rather too unpredictable. I am not sure what he will look like next, you can just never tell. Oh, do not look so mournful Captain, it is nearly Christmas. Perhaps ask me in a couple of years and I will see how he has fared. Now forgive me, but I really do need to see my doctor. Good day, Treville.' The King left the room, leaving only the four men and the Cardinal remaining.

'Such a pity you could not have found an elderly Baron, or a fusty Marquis in the cupboard, Treville, or even a Comte. Still, it appears you are not so fussy these days.' Treville wanted to hit back with a witty retort – more to the point he wanted to rip the smug bastard's head off. But the First Minister had hit too close to home, and he was aware of Athos at his side, the young man's rapid breathing indicating his patience was wearing thin. Had Richelieu been doing some digging of his own?

'This is not over Richelieu. Oh, and by the way, we made sure Edward Boudain had a decent burial.' The Cardinal frowned as if trying to place the name, but not quickly enough that the four men watching his face did not recognise the slightest twitch of the muscle around his eye.

'I am afraid I am not aware of any Boudain, but I am delighted to hear you took care of his final needs. Most charitable of you, Treville. I will bid you good day.' He gave Athos one last look, then stalked from the room, black robes swishing behind him.

Porthos let out his breath and paced up and down. 'Is that it, another two years? Is he jokin'?'

Treville turned and hurried from the room, his men following in his wake. He decided it was best he got them out of the palace before one of them, including himself, committed treason. Athos said nothing, and that was what bothered him the most. God knows what must have been going through the man's mind.

'Is there nothing we can do, Captain?' Aramis beseeched Treville.

'You know the King as well as I Aramis, in this mood there is no talking to him, but at least we know one more thing now. I think we can guess who was behind the hiring of Edward Boudain.

'Rochefort,' Athos almost whispered. Treville was relieved the man had spoken.

'Precisely. A nasty tumble down the stairs? Cold-blooded murder! So now the Cardinal has a man right in the heart of Spain's politics, and God knows what that vain peacock will do let free on foreign soil. Or what plans of Richelieu's he will carry out. They will bring us to war.'

'So that was all a ruse to get himself firmly ingratiated with Spain?' Porthos rolled his eyes as he spoke. 'He must have been put out when Athos stole his thunder. Not quite the dramatic moment he had planned for.'

There appeared nothing left to say, and they mounted their horses. After all Athos had done, they were stunned by the King's response. Nothing any of them could have said would have been adequate, and not even Aramis could find the right words.

It was four silent men who arrived back at the garrison. For a moment, Athos did not dismount and Treville panicked. 'If you are up to it, some of the new recruits need some practice. It will help ease you in.' As the words came out of his mouth, he wanted to take them back tenfold. Of all the things he could have said. _Can you help those successful Musketeers, who are not a patch on you, it will give you something to do?_ He looked at Athos, his horror at his own insensitivity obvious. Athos nodded.

'As you wish.' He handed over Roger's reins and walked into the middle of the courtyard, saying something to one of the cadets as he passed. The young man dashed off and soon Athos was surrounded by a crowd of eager young men.

'I did not mean for that to sound as it did.' Treville croaked. Aramis patted his Captain's arm.

'He knows you did not, none of us knows what to say. Anyway, look at them, they love it. It will give him something to take his mind off it.' Treville nodded and watched for a moment as Athos corrected the two young men's footing before setting them off again. The Captain shook his head as though trying to clear an image from his mind, before slowly mounting the stairs to his office. Athos sparred with the cadets for most of the afternoon, without exerting himself. Aramis watched the man become more and more controlled, a sure sign he was about to explode; though that was not to say he would have taken it out on any of the cadets.

He watched Deveaux exit the armoury. Ever since they had told the Captain of his treachery, he had been on every dirty detail.

'Deveaux, Athos is just showing the cadets how to improve their sparring. Perhaps you wouldn't mind partnering him so he can demonstrate properly.' Deveaux looked from Aramis to a surprised Athos. The cadets all smiled and encouraged the Musketeer to oblige. Aramis caught Athos' eye and shrugged his shoulders. Athos knew about the Musketeer's betrayal, and it had only been his intervention that had stayed Treville's hand from having him flogged, but his eyes lit up when he realised what Aramis was offering him – an outlet for his rage. He turned to Deveaux and raised his sword in recognition. If fear flickered in Deveaux's eyes he hid it well.

The two men circled one another, and the cadets settled down to watch. The first clash of steel rang around the silent courtyard like a church bell. They thrust and parried, Athos with the ghost of a smile upon his face. It was the first time he had fought since his fall, not counting the episode in the infirmary, but it felt good. The power of having his sword in his hand once more overcame the humiliation of standing and falling short of the King's approval. He may have failed at much, but with a sword he was still unbeatable, and today would be no different.

Aramis had judged well and, if he were honest, he just wanted to watch Athos fight.

Treville sat at his desk, his head in his hands. He heard the ringing of steel and could tell from the regularity of the sound that it was not a cadet wielding the weapon. He paid closer attention, aware of the heavy silence that accompanied the sound. There was no friendly jeering or encouragement. The metal upon metal grew louder, and Treville got to his feet, throwing open his door to see what was going on below. Aramis looked up and for a moment, fearing Treville would put a stop the fight but, to his surprise, the Captain smiled.

Athos began to move his sword faster and faster, parrying every move Deveaux made with ease. He twisted his wrist so quickly that Deveaux didn't even see the blade coming, until it had slashed at his shirt. The cadets drew a communal breath as they realised this was no normal fight. Athos sneered at Deveaux and pushed him back, lunge upon lunge.

'I love it when he does that,' Porthos grinned. 'It's like watching someone dance.' Aramis agreed, and they continued to watch the fight play out before them. Deveaux was unfit – too much ale and not enough practice. He began to stumble, whereas Athos was on fire, managing to channel all of his anger and frustration into power and control – it was the most magical thing to watch. Treville stood in awe, enjoying the spectacle along with everyone else. When Athos drew blood once more, he knew he should put an end to the match, but he couldn't. This was Athos' moment and he was not going to take it away from the man.

Athos decided he had played with the Musketeer long enough. He backed away from Deveaux and let the man come at him. He waited and waited.

'Here he goes again,' Porthos chuckled, and sure enough, Athos advanced.

He stepped forward – thrust parry, thrust parry, forward so fast, so graceful. Deveaux could not keep his balance and ended up on his backside in the dirt, Athos' blade at his throat. Treville stood up straight, ready to intervene if he had to. Aramis and Porthos had also risen from the table from which they had been watching.

Athos was now breathing heavily, though more from anger than from the exertion of the fight. He leant over the prostate man, who was now shivering in the dust.

' Luckily for you, head over heart - always. If you ever cross me again, not Treville, not your friends, not even the King will save you. I will hunt you down and I will gut you like a fish. Are we quite clear?' Deveaux nodded his head as enthusiastically as he could manage. 'Excellent. Now get up and shake hands like a gentleman, if you remember how.' Deveaux stood and shook Athos' hand, then backed away as if afraid the man might change his mind and start the fight again.

Athos walked over to their favourite bench. It was really too chilly for sitting outside, but all the men had been so taken up with the fight, they had not noticed. Quite a crowd had grown around the men in the end, several of them slapping Athos on the back as he walked across the courtyard. When he reached Aramis and Porthos, Treville smiled as he saw the three of them embrace. It was a fool who could not see what those three were capable of together.

The garrison had continued to go about its business, and many were sitting in the refectory singing and enjoying the festivities of the season. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve, and everyone was in a good mood.

'We are off to The Wren, coming?' Aramis asked a quiet Athos, as they sat around the fire. He smiled and shook his head.

'Not tonight, the fight with Deveaux was… enjoyable but taxing. And thank you.' He looked at Aramis and smiled. Aramis chuckled.

'You are most welcome. I wish I could say I did it all for you, but I have to admit I enjoyed watching you fight. We all did, even Treville.' Athos raised a brow then smiled again.

'Then I am glad to have been of service. Enjoy your evening and do not get into any trouble without me there to save your sorry skins.' He watched the two men walk out of the garrison, laughing and joking as they went. Treville entered the refectory, grinning to himself as the old cook ladled out his supper. Athos smiled and set about the tasks he needed to perform.

oOo

He stood in the stable checking Roger's saddle and talking softly in the horse's ear. He was about to lead him out when a voice stopped him.

'You were leaving just like that? Without saying goodbye?' Treville stood at the entrance of the stable, barring his way.

'I thought it would be for the best.' Athos locked eyes with Treville and the Captain could see the sadness in the young man's gaze.

'Why? So the King said no today, but tomorrow it could all be different...' Athos stopped him.

'I cannot just wait for the King to have a good day, and suddenly give in. I need… I need him to mean it.' He looked at Treville and the Captain saw that small boy again, standing in front of his father, just wanting him to say it did not matter that he had lost, it was enough that he had tried.

'Would it make a difference if I told you I wanted you to stay, that I am proud?' Athos sighed and looked up at the rafters.

'It means everything, but I am afraid it is twenty years too late.' He frowned and gave Treville the ghost of a smile. Treville realised he could not make Athos stay. He stood to one side and let man and horse pass. As Athos reached him, he held out his hand. Treville took it then pulled the surprised young man into a tight embrace. Athos returned the gesture and when he pulled away, his eyes were shining with tears.

'Tell Aramis… tell him I have gone to read a story to an old lady. I think she will be in need.'

Treville looked puzzled, but nodded his head.

'Will you be back?' Athos smiled and swung on to Roger's back. 'Why don't you wait until morning, it is dark, and the road will be treacherous.' Athos merely shook his head. He urged Roger forward and headed out into the quiet Paris streets. Treville wiped at his eyes furiously, angry with himself that he had not found the right words to make him stay. What could he have said? Perhaps, _your father was a fool, I would be proud to call you my son_. Yes, perhaps that is what he should have said, for that is what he felt.

Not until rider and horse were out of sight, did he turn around. He did not return to the refectory, his appetite gone. As he opened his office door, he noticed the small parcel upon the desk. He walked around the furniture and sat down, staring at it. Slowly he untied the string and unwrapped the object in its soft cloth pouch. Treville felt his hand shake as he watched the figure tumble into his palm. It was a scaled-down soldier, about as tall as his finger. It was bronze and intricately carved, the pistol in his hand clear in its detail, the sword hanging at his side a beautiful miniature in itself. Treville held the small thing aloft, then hung his head and wept.

He had been sat at his desk for longer than he knew, just holding the toy soldier in his hands. He heard the booted feet upon the stairs, and he took a deep breath. The door burst open, no knock – he had not expected one.

Aramis was first. He took one look at the Captain's face and the toy figure in his hands, and he slowed to a halt. Porthos, too, calmed slightly, seeing his Captain's lost expression.

'You too?' Aramis asked. Treville nodded. He noted that Aramis clutched a small book and Porthos held a fine linen shirt of excellent quality. Porthos looked down at the shirt and sniffed.

'He said mine weren't soft enough.' He looked at Aramis.

'Medical journal, field medic. Rare copy.' They both looked toward the Captain.

'Toy soldier, long story.' Treville smiled.

'So, he has gone,' Aramis stated, tears in his eyes.

'Yes, son, he has gone. But he left a message for you. He said to tell you he had gone to read an old lady a story, he said he suspected she would need it.' Treville still looked puzzled, but the tears that now fell freely down Aramis' face told him the man understood. Porthos sniffed and looked angry.

'He didn't say goodbye. Must mean he's comin' back, right?' Treville sighed and suddenly felt very old, it had been a long day.

'This time, son, I don't know, I just don't know. The three men stood together, united in their anguish until, one by one, they found their own place to weep their private tears and mourn the loss of their friend.

 **Epilogue**

As the dawn light lit up the sky, Athos stopped and turned Roger around. Paris rose out of the glowing horizon in all her glory. He had ridden slowly, no point rushing – as Treville had said, the roads were treacherous in the dark. He had wanted only to leave before Aramis and Porthos returned, as he knew his resolve would have weakened had they asked him to stay.

He simply wasn't ready yet.

He really was going to read to the old Duchess. Hopefully, the news of Gaston's treachery had hopefully not reached her yet as, for some reason, he wanted to be the one to tell her.

After that, he needed to go home. There was something he needed to see, something he should have seen a long time ago. Perhaps then he could close his eyes and find peace.

The End


	35. Footnote

Just a short note, to those of you who enjoyed this story.

I have begun writing the follow up, but due to the nature of the content, the rating is set higher to M. I did not wish to offend those who find explicit detail uncomfortable, and so abiding by the rules of the site, changed the rating from T to M.

The story is called Nothing Breaks, and only contains one or two adult scenes, and even they are not terribly explicit. However, potentially I felt there was enough detail, to make a M rating necessary. So for those of you whose alerts are not set for such works, but wish to know what happens next; you will need to search for it specifically.

Thank you for continuing to support my work, Trevlik65


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